


Blessed With a Curse

by GalaxyGhosty, Quintessentia



Category: JackSepticEye (YouTube RPF), Markiplier (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Consent, Hallucinations, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Manipulation, Paranoia, Rating May Change, Sensuality, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-06-07 17:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 107,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6817678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyGhosty/pseuds/GalaxyGhosty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quintessentia/pseuds/Quintessentia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They'd never thought much of the man in the mirror until he started talking back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. flashing those eyes like highway signs

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Bring Me the Horizon's song of the same name. 
> 
> This is a collaboration story between Galaxy_Ghost and Quintessentia, two very exuberant writers very thrilled to bring this story to the table. GG will be writing all parts from Mark's POV, and Quin will be writing all parts from Jack's POV. 
> 
> It will update on Tuesdays (GG) and Saturdays (Quin), and the rating is likely to change for sexual and disturbing content later on.
> 
> Chapter title from "Is There Somewhere" by Halsey. 
> 
> Please keep that in mind.
> 
> But, without further ado, please enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new day, a new game, some brand new excitement. But Mark doesn't realize just how far he's in over his head.

Lights in place. Door cracked. Pants off. 

Mark breathes in. Switching on the camera, he beams as he calls to the audience that will soon be watching him, “Hello everybody, my name is Markiplier and welcome to a new indie horror game!” 

The words are familiar on his tongue, a sense of ease and comfort filling him. Mark loves his job dearly—he never really stops being grateful that he gets to do it. The connection with the people viewing him, the connection with people he games with—it's all such an exhilarating experience that never quite leaves him, even hours after he's finished recording. 

“So this game goes by the name of _Ad Acheronta_ , a very fancy name I found trouble pronouncing,” Mark says. “But after some quick Googling I came to realize it was pronounced Add-Aker-onta, which apparently means something in Latin. Now, I don't really have a reason to trust Google's translation abilities, but supposedly the title means _To Hell_ , which bodes great for me!”

He punctuates the last sentence with a laugh.

Mark gazes over the log-in screen, a simplistic off-white background that looks like something straight out of a classic RPG horror. Two buttons hover beneath the title, written in eerily fluid font, _Ad Acheronta_ , reading _Begin_ and _Log-Out_. After a few minutes of fiddling with the controls, the game appears to be mouse-driven, as using the arrow keys and WASD doesn't toggle the menu at all.

The white on the screen kind of hurts his eyes, though, so Mark makes a point to try and turn the brightness down. But the game doesn't seem to have an _Options_ button, leaving Mark to forcibly tough it out.

“Anyway, it's been a while since we played a good horror game on the channel,” Mark comments. “And I know you guys have been just as eager as me to get back into them. The developer approached me in an email, asking me if I would try it out for him, and from the description of the game, it seemed like it had a _lot_ of promise. Funny enough, I couldn't find any screenshots from it while researching it, but hey, it'll add to the atmosphere. I have no idea what this will be like. But I'll quit babbling and get into it.”

Adjusting his headphones, Mark hovers over the Begin button and presses it, watching the menu dissipate. It crumbles to dust, the screen growing even brighter for a brief period, before dimming once more. 

Then, a typewriter sound. Words fill the screen.

  
**Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.**  
_If I can not bend the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell._  


“If I cannot bend the will of Heaven,” Mark reads. “I shall move Hell. Well, that's great. I've always wanted to move Hell. It's my lifelong dream!”

Something about the joke unsettles him. Something about the quote entirely unsettles him, but he can't place it. It's probably the pre-horror jitters, the anticipation of a cheap jumpscare gnawing at him. Whenever games tend to start with bizarre quotes, usually something bad is in store for him. It's never boded well in the past, and he has no reason to believe it will now. The text fades, and suddenly, the screen grows dark. 

Nothing happens. Mark murmurs, “Uh. Did the game crash? I think—oh, no, wait. There it goes.”

_Please enter your name._

The cursor at the end of the sentence blinks, and Mark hums thoughtfully. “Hmm. Let's see. What should I name myself?”

A string of weird names comes across his head, all variants of Markiplier that sound ridiculously stupid and would definitely provide ample jokes to make later. Imagine a horror game where every time something bad happened, Character A would scream, “Markibutt!” 

Snickering to himself, Mark begins to type just that, but as his fingers hover over the keys, he can't seem to smile about it.

Frowning, he instead types, “Mark.”

He hesitates for a fraction before pressing enter. The game accepts the name. “I figured maybe we'd take this one a little more serious, since I know nothing about it. So, Mark it is. Have you guys heard anything about this game? It was marketed with the tagline, _This game will bring out the worst in you_. I'm assuming that means you play the antagonist or something? That'd be kinda cool. Very few games manage to pull that off well.”

There's no opening credits. There's no introduction of any sort. The screen melds into a scene and Mark is in control of...something. 

He thinks the character is a boy. It's hard to tell. The vision is blurry and he moves the mouse to see if he can shift the camera, resulting in a very sluggish and disorienting camera angle. His character appears to be...laying down?

The screen blinks at the bottom right with the W key. Mark murmurs, “Uh. I have no idea what's happening. Should I be pressing this...?”

He begins to rapidly press the appropriate key, watching how painfully slow the camera rises. It’s like a quick-time event--Mark hopes he doesn’t royally fuck up to start the game off. Whoever he’s controlling gets halfway up, and Mark gets the glimpse of a closet door, and then a door leading into a hallway with a tannish looking carpet, when a foot comes into view but blocks out all the light.

“Woah!” Mark exclaims. “Woah, woah, what? What the hell just happened?”

“ _Don’t get up_ ,” a voice says, in the game, low and dark, with perhaps a hint of glee. Malice. Enjoyment. “ _Little brother_.”

His character cracks open his eyes again, and through the sliver of light, Mark sees a pair of feet leaving the room, and the door to the hallway slamming shut. 

Mark’s heart hammers in his ears. He’s never had such an emotional response to violence in video games before, but something about little brother sends fury into him. It boils just beneath his skin, threatening to burst out of him. But he reserves his judgment for now, forcibly laughing, “Well. That was an...interesting start to the game.”

_[Hold W to get up]_

Using his finger, Mark holds the W key and watches his character slowly rise, a ragged breath escaping him. The screen flashes with the W, then A, then D, and he watches as they all register his touch. After pushing himself up, his character stumbles to his feet, and holding his stomach, he hunches over. 

His breathing is so harsh in Mark’s ears, as if this boy is right in front of him. 

_[Clean yourself up before Mom comes home]_

“What the _fuck_ ,” Mark hisses, the words slipping out of him before he can catch them. “Before Mom comes home? Shouldn’t this be something you’d tell your mother about? That your brother is beating the utter piss out of you? And how are you going to hide that anyway?” 

Nonetheless, the objective is clear. A little tip pops up at the top of the screen, indicating that WASD moves the character, and the mouse is used to looking around the area. 

The room reeks of _teenager_. Band posters and half opened drawers, messy bed and misplaced socks. Papers scattered across the desks and bed and floor, along with what appears to be an out-of-tune guitar lying in the corner.

“This room kind of reminds me of what Jack's room would've looked like,” Mark says, absentmindedly. “Huge band nerd, messy shit. Not that I've ever been in Jack's room, but from what he's told me it just seems like him.”

Once the words are out, Mark tries to play it off as coolly as he can. His awkward feelings for the green bean across the sea have not been lost on him, nor is he oblivious to their painful residence in his heart, but he tries to keep it on the down-low. Half-assed jokes here and there about the two of them keep him sane, and keeps a sensible amount of distance between what his heart wishes for and what reality dictates. 

Mark takes note of how the curtains are drawn, the sun barely peeking through the window. Maybe it’s better that way. 

But what startles him are the obvious bloodstains on the floor, both from the recent struggle and what Mark presumes to be a previous encounter. 

“Jesus,” Mark whispers. “How long has this been going on? I guess, uh, I better go to the bathroom or something?” 

A sinking feeling creeps into him as he approaches the bathroom, almost anxious of a scare, and the camera pans to the lightswitch on the wall. He presses the E key as the screen tells him to, and the lights flicker to life. 

His character shuts the door. For the first time, Mark gets a decent look at him. What greets him horrifies him. 

Bloody nose. Bruised face. Cuts and tears on the flesh. He looks so pale. 

“Man, I thought I looked rough today,” Mark says, as light-hearted as he can, but there’s not a whole lot to joke about with the situation. 

Staring at the boy’s face, he’s so suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. Reflexively, Mark reaches up to touch his own face, expecting some sort of pain, expecting to feel every cut and bruise, but he doesn’t. He swallows, and is totally silent for a moment.

He’ll probably edit this part out. 

Using the keys, he walks forward toward the sink, admiring how he can still see his character’s reflection in the mirror. He comments, “These are pretty good graphics for an indie game. I’m impressed. Usually they don’t bother with mirror reflections.”

He’s given the option to use the sink, and allows his character to. Turning the water on, his character makes a bowl with his hands, letting the water run into it. Toggling the W key, Mark splashes the water on his face. 

“Yes, that’ll clean you right up,” Mark comments sarcastically. 

But it does _something_. Some of the blood goes away, at least. Opening the medicine cabinet, a series of options appear, allowing Mark the option to choose bandages, disinfectant, aspirin, or closing the medicine cabinet. 

“Well, I guess disinfectant goes on before the bandaids,” he reasons. “So...this one!”

He presses the coordinating key for the disinfectant, watching as the boy pulls it out, and untwists the cap. He puts some of the ointment on his skin, cuts, and bruises, before putting it back. Mark then pulls out the bandages and sticks them to his face. 

“Good as new,” Mark laughs, staring uncomfortably at the boy’s patched up face. “It’s like he was never hurt at all!”

Allowing his character to grab the aspirin, he tosses it back, swallowing it dry. Mark winces. “No, that was stupid. You’re trying to make yourself better, not worse! For anyone listening at home, do not swallow pills dry. It could seriously hurt you.” 

Seemingly satisfied with his PSA, Mark walks his character out of the bathroom, still a little sluggish, back into the bedroom. The only option is to leave, he thinks, so Mark heads that way, wincing internally every time his character stumbles even a fraction.

“I can’t say I’m liking this too far,” Mark tells the camera, before he can catch himself. “It seems very...monotonous. And I really, really don’t like the abuse factor. Even if it’s a video game, it’s _not_ okay.”

His character approaches the hall, opening the squeaking door. The sound grates on him, clawing inside of his ears and filling him to the brim with a sense of tension and unease. 

Three choices pop up. Down the hall, to the right, behind him.

**W** _[Sleep it off]_ **A** _[Go to the kitchen]_ **D** _[Enact revenge]_

“These are three drastically different options,” Mark comments. “But sleep is always a good answer, if you ask me.”

But he doesn’t hit it. He thinks of the boy’s face, wondering what he must have looked like during previous struggles, wondering how many times he’s been in that bathroom, cleaning himself up. The sinking feeling is replaced with anger, and he said, “No, you know what? I wanna see what happens. I’ve never made a purposely bad choice. I’m gonna give this kid the win he deserves.”

He presses the D key, and it blinks for a few moments, before his fate is settled. The boy takes a step towards the right hallway, and the screen fades to black. 

Mark waits, clearing his throat in the meantime. “Well. Hopefully this doesn’t royally screw up my ending. Maybe things will actually get interesting now. And maybe we’ll figure out what’s really going on. Because I am _really_ damn confused.”

Out of the blue, or maybe it's always been there, Mark picks up on the faint tinkling of static in the background. He reaches for his headphone jack and twists it, wondering if there's a malfunction, but it appears to be in properly. He doesn't say anything about it, but something about it fills him with a sense of paranoia. Like something bad is coming. 

But he keeps these thoughts to himself. 

When the screen opens up again, Mark sees the boy sitting in his room with another person. A friend, he presumes, with some haphazardly tossed papers and strewn about the room. The opposing character puffs on a cigarette of some sort—Mark thinks maybe it's a joint—in which the billowing bursts of grey fill the room. He nicknames him “Glasses,” since he's wearing overly large frames, and it's the first thing he's noticed about him. That, and the vivid, green eyes that seem to be the only splotch of color against the duller, darker backdrop. 

“You could always just shoot the sum bitch,” Glasses drawls, a waft of smoke pouring from his lips. “It'd be like. Load, click, fire, done. Nobody would bat an eye.”

Four options appear on the screen.

**W** _[I don't want him dead, just to realize what he's done]_ **A** _[It'd be too quick]_  
**S** _[I don't own a gun]_ **D** _[...]_

Weighing his options as best he can, Mark thinks of the repercussions. In a way, the image of the boy's face still brutally beaten in, the crawling disgust he felt for the whole situation, sways his opinion tremendously. 

“I think,” Mark mutters. “I want to purposely choose the bad answers. Kinda like, uh, that one game. _Catherine_ , I think it was called? Where there was the option between order and chaos, or something like that? You get a lot of good versus bad choices and I think this game might be shooting for replay ability, so my first run I'll choose bad options. So don't hate me, okay?”

His words are only half true. Mark can't erase the the sickening crack of blunt force trauma from the opening of the game, the implication that this has occurred so many times before. He wants the boy to get some payback. 

He doesn't voice this. What would the community think, if they heard him advocating for violence? He's never been about fighting violence with violence before. 

Mark swallows. He selects the choice A, watching it blink for a brief moment, as the last choice had before it. His character doesn't speak, but in the few second time lapse, his friend laughs. 

“Yeah, I suppose most things are too good for that son of a bitch,” Glasses says. “So what did you have in mind?”

For the first time, the boy smiles and Mark can't help but think this isn't going to go over well. 

His character stands. Mark is prompted to look around the room—through the closet and in his shelf drawers. Mark ends up running into the desk, first, and sees a little box he's allowed to interact with. 

He picks it up. It's a box of thumb tacks. He has the option to rotate it in his hand, and Mark already knows what it will be used for. For a brief moment, he can see the scene playing out in his mind, and it's almost comical.

Almost.

His character tosses them next to his friend, where surprisingly they don't just scatter all over the place. Mark finds that highly unrealistic, but nevertheless continues to search the desk, and when nothing becomes available, he makes his way to the closet.

After searching through a few coat pockets, he withdraws a lighter. After methodically looking it over, Mark says aloud, “So. Uh, just burning the house down? I guess that's a good idea.”

He realizes he may never upload this video at all, given how little he's talking. There's not a lot to say. He's pretty sure the game speaks for itself, finding the simplicity of it unnerving now rather than monotonous. 

Is this a horror game? Mark hasn't been scared once yet. Usually, there's always one. But not yet. 

He tosses the lighter into the mix. His friend whistles. “Nice one. That'll be fun to use.”

Mark finds Glasses' encouragement to be annoying, somehow. No more so than normal game characters, but the tension that the game has been pulling on him just makes it a tad bit more unbearable. He wishes, to a degree, that he gets the chance to make a sarcastic remark to him of some sort.

After tossing out a baseball bat and belt from his closet, Mark makes his way over to the drawers. He combs through the nightstand, looking for whatever might be of use to inflict pain on someone else, and finds needles, a nail file, and a fountain pen that looks three thousand years past its time. 

“This looks like a bunch of spring cleaning,” Glasses remarks. “What are you gonna do with all this shit?”

His character turns and the green eyes are back, regarding him with a sense of excitement and intrigue. Mark doesn't move his character for a minute, allowing himself to appreciate the camera angle, remarking aloud, “Well. I'll give this game one thing. It's got pretty decent graphics. I mean, look at how green his eyes are. It's so cool.” 

A single option choice pops up.

**W** _[You'll see]_

He selects it and the screen grows dark again.

Mark lets out an exasperated sigh. “Is this game going to just be playing on time skips and mediocre choices? It just feels really inadequate to me, like it's more of a movie rather than a player-choice driven story. This is why I tend to stay away from these sort of games.” 

When the camera regains lighting, it's not light at all. Rather, it's extremely dark, with only a pale sliver of moonlight shining through a room. The baseball bat leans against the wall, the door is cracked, and the camera pans to a bunch of thumb tacks in his character's hands.

He has the option to set them down or to utilize them, and Mark winces prematurely. “Oh. Shit, that's gonna hurt...let's do it.”

His character kneels down, placing each individual thumb tack on the ground right next to a bed, which Mark presumes is the brother sleeping. There's a bunch of them facing upward by the time Mark regains footing, and he has the option to _Proceed_ or _Continue_.

Mark does a quick loop of the room, and grabs the bat from the wall, tightening his grip on it. Then, Glasses cracks the door, making a point to hand him the lighter.

**W** _[Proceed]_ **A** _[Continue]_

“I think I can do some pretty serious damage with what I've got now,” Mark says. “I don't think I need the needles and all that other stuff I pulled out.”

He presses W and it, like it has so many other times, blinks for a fraction of a second before his character begins to move. He has the option to lock the door, but Mark decides against it. After a brief moment of wandering, the reaction key highlights over top of the lamp on the beside.

“Ohhh,” Mark laughs. “Am I going to get to break the lamp?”

True to form, he does. Mark holds down the E key, then releases it, watching as the boy moves and smashes it against the wall with the bat. The shattering bursts within his ears, and Mark jumps, frightened by the audio quality. For the entire earlier part of the game, it had been quieter, more normal volume, but now it frightened him.

One scare down—who knows how many more to go?

The next events happen so fast Mark has trouble keeping up with him. He gets a glance at the older brother, but the darkness seems to swallow him whole as he hops out of bed, but stumbles on the thumb tacks. The audio is so loud now, but Mark can't bring himself to turn it down, even though he wants to. 

The shrieks of pain seep into him. Swallowing, Mark can feel his heart picking up in his chest again, as he's given the option to approach the brother pulling the tacks out of his feet. 

_[Press W to swing]_

Without hesitating, he does.

_Crack_. Metal meets skull, and the noise causes Mark to shiver. He can't think of anything to say as without prompting, the boy keeps swinging and bashing and crashing. 

“You, uh,” he recognizes the voice as Glasses. “Might wanna stop now, Mark.”

His heart jumps at the sound of his own name. How does it know? He laughs uncomfortably, “Hahaha. Oh, god. Um. Does this game have like, a bank of names or something? And I just happened to have had one that it had? I mean, Mark is a pretty common name...”

But “Mark” stops, breathing heavily, again loud and ragged in his ears. The options appear again.

**W** _[Proceed]_ **A** _[Continue]_

“I can keep going?” Mark exclaims. He shakes his head. “I'm not gonna—Jesus, I haven't even seen what he looks like.”

Something about the option to continue with the onslaught intrigues Mark, though. And he had just made a promise to make the token “bad” choices, so with heavy fingers, he presses A.

After a few seconds, Glasses shrieks, “Mark, stop!”

Even in the midst of the hitting, Mark's prompted once more. W or A. 

He's so far in, now. Mark presses A. 

It just keeps going. Hit after hit. The screams are drowned out by static, and Mark's ears are ringing with the grating sensation. He could listen to his friend, but why should he? He could tell him to leave, but why should he? Isn't he the one who prompted this?

Glasses grows quiet after a while. Whether he knows that his words fall on deaf ears now, or not, he can't tell. It goes on for what seems like forever, and he's given the option to rise from where he's been on his knees. 

He turns. Glasses stares at him in mute horror, and says, “What the fuck have you done?”

**W** _[Proceed]_ **A** _[Apologize]_

“I don't think,” Mark tries. “I can apologize for that. So I'm...guessing proceed means to continue with the story in this style?”

With some reservations, he presses the W key, watching as “Mark” raises the bat again and slams it right into his friend's head. He crumples against the wall, and it fades with “Mark” walking towards him. 

Mark stares blankly, unsure of how to respond to the event that just occurred, as a loading screen pops up, then reveals what can only be described as a profile. 

Percentages and other numbers illuminate the page, almost like a string of codes that makes almost no sense. It's got various decisions in it—a seven deadly sins chart, a selection of the choices he made, and finally, the Continue button. 

“So I guess...” Mark says slowly. “This is...my stats page?”

He doesn't read the screen, the last scene on repeat in his mind. Sure, he'd wanted to get back at Glasses a little bit for being annoying as a character, but had he wanted to bring about the same kind of pain? He hadn't. He hadn't.

_Had he?_

_No. No._

He blinks. When he manages to snap himself out of the cycling thoughts, his eyes glaze over the information. 

**_MARK_**  
_You’re a violent one, aren’t you?_  
_So much blood.  
_ _Did you enjoy yourself?_

_Wrath: 68%_  
_Gluttony: 32%_  
_Lust: 0%_  
_Greed: 0%_  
_Envy: 0%_  
_Pride: 0%_  
_Sloth: 0%_

__

_You chose:_  


**[Enact Revenge]**  
**[Too Quick]**  
**[Thumb Tacks]**  
**[Baseball Bat]**  
**[Shatter the Lamp]  
** **[Proceed]**

__

_Madness Profile: Prone to violence, bloodshed/bruising, and collective chaos_  


__**Prone to Violence**  
_-Took great deliberation in setting up for most pain. Took baseball bat (blunt force trauma), thumb tacks (immense pain) and chose to shatter the lamp_  
_-Chose to proceed in assaulting surrounding persons_  
__**Bloodshed**  
_-Used the thumb tacks to puncture the skin of the feet_  
_-Consistently used bat to break skin and bruise considerably in the aftermath_  
_-Did not clear blood off the floor of room_  
__**Collective Chaos**  
_-Preferred a direct “revenge” as opposed to passive_  
_-Did not choose to use the lighter when presented with the option_  
_-Most damage done with hands_  
- _Chose to attack persons not directly involved_

__

_**MARK** is a hands-on person. Delights in spilling blood, causing chaos, and is quick to anger. Will likely continue to wreak havoc on all persons in the future._

Mark combs his fingers through his hair, somehow hearing the words ring in his head. He shouldn't hear them in his head. But he does. The static grows louder now, and Mark finds it incredibly strange that there's no music at all. He hadn't realized it up to this point. Just the persistent static. Just screams.

He lets out a shaky breath. 

“Well, uh, that's all the time I have for this part,” he says, looking into the camera. He pulls off his headphones, if nothing else than to just get rid of the sound. “I don't really think I'll play this anymore. It seems a little too violent for the community, and I really don't like the direction of it. Don't get me wrong, it had some good parts to it, like the details in it, but it was less _horror_ and more just really, really damn uncomfortable. So unless you guys _seriously_ want me to play more, I think I'll probably shelve this one. But anyway, thank you all so much for watching, and as always, I will see you in the next video. Buh-bye!”

He tries to smile as he shuts the camera off, but isn't sure he manages it well enough. He opens the task manager, forcefully shutting down the game, because he really doesn't want to see where it goes from here. Something about clicking “continue” just seems to be inviting trouble that he doesn't want to deal with.

Rubbing his eyes, Mark checks the clock to realize it's only eight o' clock at night and he's more tired than he's been in a while. 

The silence of the room rings like the static in his ears.


	2. for better or for worse, i was born into a hearse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets a chance to play the same game, and he doesn't fare much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is written in Jack's POV, and GG and I will continue to switch off POVs between chapters from here on out. We hope you're enjoying what we've written so far (sorry for the slight similarity of content in these two chapters). The action will pick up later on, and the rating is definitely going to increase as we continue.
> 
> Be warned, there is a brief mention of suicide (hypothetical, not on Jack's part) and some disturbing imagery.
> 
> Chapter Title is also from Bring Me the Horizon's song, "Blessed with a Curse".

Jack twirls the power cable around one finger, frowning deeply at the screen in front of him.

_“Still loading 67%…”_

This goddamn game had been advertised as an ‘obscure indie horror game with an emphasis on personal choices and role-reversal’, and the file size had been absolutely massive. Jack isn’t known for his affinity for indie style games, but he knows a thing or two about how they work. Rarely does any indie or amateur game take this long to load without crashing, but the downloading process has already elapsed at least two hours and counting.

Groaning, he slumps back into his chair and glares impatiently at the screen, as though it’s moving more slowly just to grate on his every last nerve. He’s been out to get lunch and now, on the other side of an incredibly underwhelming sub sandwich, the game is still loading sluggishly in front of him. Jack imagines that the fucking thing is eating through his vast memory space, sinking its claws into his hard drive so tenaciously that uninstalling it later is going to be an even bigger bitch.

Not for the first time, he’s thankful for the soundproofing installed all along the walls of his recording space as he whines loudly, kicking his desk leg with both feet.

He’d seen the introductory email from an obscure independent game developer almost a month back, explaining that they’d made an early access beta version open to a select number of Youtubers in order to test audience reaction, and he’d been too preoccupied with other emails to bother with it.

Jack hadn’t even wanted to play the stupid thing once he’d remembered the email existed, but ever since Mark had recorded it a couple weeks back and subsequently abandoned it after complaining about its unsettling content, his twitter feed had been absolutely bloated with demands that he give it a try.

He’d tweeted back indignantly that if Mark had said it was so shit, there was no reason to think he’d enjoy it either, but the feedback had been so insistent that Jack had said ‘fuck it’ and hit the download button. What was the harm in trying out one more shit game anyways? Terrible games could still make for great playthroughs if he stayed on his A game.

Scoffing at the reminder that his entire job is based around making a joke out of things, Jack shoves himself away from his desk and retreats to kitchen in search of a cup of tea. Tussling with this game is clearly going to be an all day kind of ordeal, and he’s going to need all the fuel he can get.

-.-

While he waits for the stupid game to finish downloading and the tea to steep, he checks his twitter feed again idly, frowning when he realizes it’s been another week he hasn’t heard from Mark.

He’s no fool—he knows Mark is a busy man and Jack’s just a loner who lives an ocean away with nothing better to do than scream at his monitor all day, but his brain has never operated solely off of logic. It’s no secret to anyone how much he looks up to most of the Youtubers he’s interacted with in the past, and for someone who doesn’t get much human interaction outside of skyping and collabing with people who live thousands of miles away, Jack takes his few friendships very seriously.

The fact that he’s been looking at Mark through lenses that aren’t quite as platonically shaped as they should be is completely inconsequential. Jack’s a grown man, despite how much he likes to allude to the opposite, and he knows when something speeds straight past a ‘long shot’ into the realm of the impossible.

He’s convinced himself that he could be completely happy with only Mark’s friendship, blah blah blah—every stereotypical unrequited love based platitude that’s ever been written about he’s already come to terms with. The only outcome he can’t possibly bring himself to face is that Mark has no interest in being long term friends with him at all.

It’s been nearly a month since Mark has reached out to him, whereas before they would talk regularly, tossing ideas for collabs and projects back and forth, and lowkey flirting in a way that was meant to jostle them into smiling constantly, with no substance other than for the novelty of it.

Jack misses their easy conversations, misses the way he’d look forward to hearing Mark’s voice and his enthusiasm over almost any game that either of them had in mind. Talking to someone who understood the kind of life that he lived was an irreplaceable feeling, one that was difficult to emulate in any other relationship, platonic or not. There was something about being connected to people who were in the same boat as you that strengthened the bond immediately, and it’s upon that reason which Jack bases his unfounded desires.

There’s no one else around who shares his experiences, in fact there’s hardly anyone around at all, and Jack can’t legitimize his own feelings when he knows he’s only tethering himself to the one person who—up until now—had remained a constant in his life.

He thinks about Mark, about how much he loves Mark, and about how pointless it is to love someone so far away when those feelings have nowhere to go.

He stirs his tea and frowns again, kicking himself mentally for still being disappointed that he’s been off Mark’s radar for so long now. He knows it’s perfectly normal to be upset over missing a long distance friend, but some snarky little crevice of his mind is telling him he’s taking it too personally.

The tea burns his mouth, leaving his tongue feeling raw and numb, and Jack thinks bleakly that this must be what the rest of his day is going to be like. Still resolutely ignoring the nagging urge to shoot Mark a message on Skype or twitter, he grabs a bag of pretzels and trudges back up to his recording space.

-.-

Twenty minutes and two handfuls of stale pretzels later, the game is finally finished downloading and Jack is past done with waiting around on it. Were it not for the reality that he’s behind on recording at the moment, he might have put off playing until at least the next day, but instead he finds himself glaring dully at the title card as it blacks out his screen.

He’s tempted to try the game out before hitting the record button, but suddenly the screen flashes bright white and Jack blinks furiously, taken aback.

The menu is as simplistic as they come, only two options pasted over a bright white screen: _Begin_ or _Log_ _Out_.

“Looks like somebody put a lot of effort into the presentation here,” Jack mutters under his breath. He’s been putting more effort lately into being more positive in his Let’s Plays, but he can only get so excited about well, _nothing_.

With a heavy sigh, Jack shakes himself out, trying to rid himself of any negative energy before filming himself, because the audience can always tell when he’s feeling off point— _always_.

“Top of the morning to you, laddies! My name is Jacksepticeye and welcome to a game called _Ad Acheronta_!” His enthusiasm fizzles a little around the Latin pronunciation, slowing to sound out the words, and then he makes a face.

“ _Ad Acheronta_ means ‘to hell’, which sounds like a pretty damn pretentious name to me, but we’re gonna get in and try it anyways,” Jack clicks on _Begin_ , noting the lack of any keyboard controls so far, and waits.

“This game was recommended to me both by the developer and by you guys, ever since Mark played it a couple of weeks ago. I wasn’t really sure about playing it at first, and as you can see…this is why.”

A quote flashes on the screen, almost too fast for Jack to read it.

**Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.**

_If I cannot bend the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell_

“Ok then,” he says, thoroughly confused. “I feel like I’ve heard that saying somewhere before, but fucked if I know what is has to do with anything. I don’t know how I feel about this game yet, mostly because I know next to nothing about it.”

The words fade away, only to be replaced with more text: _Please enter your name_.

“Okay, what’re we gonna be? I probably shouldn’t use something like Booper Dooper in a horror game,” he reasons aloud. “Not that that kind of thing wouldn’t be hilarious, but the email told me that you could play as the villain in this, so we’d probably better go with something more serious.”

He chews on his lip, typing and backspacing continuously for a moment, mentally scrolling through every throwaway screen name he’s used in the past, and then an idea sprouts in his mind.

He grins deviously.

“Antisepticeye,” he types in, sounding the word aloud. The game doesn’t accept it, the name falling short of the character limit by one letter, and Jack frowns.

“Fine,” he grumbles, feeling a little daunted, but still incredibly proud of his clever thinking skills. “You guys like evil Jack so much? Let’s do this instead!”

He types ‘ _Anti’_ into the name bar and presses enter. The game stills for a moment and then goes dark, the silence seeming louder than before.

“This game seems really anticlimactic already,” he jokes, tilting his head a little as colors blur slowly onto the screen. “I’m not exactly taking that as a good sign.”

The game is fuzzy and disorienting, but then a face swims into vision, and Jack’s eyes go a little wide.

It’s a girl, probably no older than seventeen, sniffling at her reflection into a large bathroom mirror backed by tile walls and glittery posters boasting only one intelligible word.

**PROM**

“Oh Jesus,” Jack complains the moment he catches sight of the mascara tainted tear trails streaking across the girl’s cheekbones. “Is this gonna be the world’s most cliché retelling of ‘ _Prom Night’_ , except this time I actually have to live through it?”

_[WASD to move]_

Jack navigates the girl through the bathroom, trying to make sense of the environment, but he’s clearly been locked in. The animation is decent enough, not good enough to be considered anything close to next-gen, but the girl is clearly distraught, and it takes him a second too long to notice the state of disarray her clothes are in.

He’s about to make a predictable sex joke about virgins on Prom Night, but the screen blurs again and the color washes away into a black and white haze.

“What the fuck?” he hisses aloud, genuinely confused. “I didn’t do anything, I swear!”

The low thump of static beating on and off in his ears begins as he watches the same girl, tear and rumple free and sporting a shiny tiara, waltz leisurely into the bathroom he’d just seen her in and reapply her lipstick. In a sequence of jagged, disjointed events, Jack watches in horror and slight fascination as she’s set upon by a group of three other girls, all equally dolled up but suspiciously missing tiaras.

The girls grab her by the hair, causing her to smear the lipstick in a dark line across her cheek, and bully her into one of the stalls, only to dunk her head into the toilet viciously.

Jack can’t respond to the blatantly senseless violence occurring in front of him with anything other than confusion and utter disgust.

“This is the weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he comments, chewing on his bottom lip. “Why are they just attacking this poor girl? Is it because she won prom queen and they didn’t—‘cause lemme tell you, that whole concept is bullshit anyways. No one cares who you were while you were in high school, just throwing that out there.”

The girl tries to fight back, but to no avail as the girls steal her crown and kick her with their heels, wrecking her hair and makeup and skewing her dress until it’s a soaked, rumpled shade of what it was. They leave her there, a crying ruined mess of a prom queen, and one of the girls snaps the crown in half before tossing it back at her as they go, jamming the door shut behind them.

The colors seep back into the frame, and Jack’s faced again with his character, looking like a pitiful, sparkly dishrag.

“Well fuck those guys then,” he curses, because there’s not much he can say to something that unapologetically cruel. Violence in videogames he can handle, but deliberate humiliation? He can’t make a joke about that.

“This game is weird,” he complains as the controls come back online and he’s back to moving around. The screen blurs again as he tries to examine himself in the mirror, and white text appears on the bottom.

_[Press W to regain some of your dignity]_

“Don’t mind if I do, then,” he responds, watching as his character haphazardly tries to get herself in order. “I hate to say it, but I don’t think there’s much you can do for those lipstick stains. That stuff is a bitch to get out—don’t ask how I know that.”

His character only looks marginally less tragic once she’s fixed her hair and clothes, but the tears are noticeably dried up. Jack guides her back to the bathroom door, because there’s no other exit and no other visible hotspots to interact with.

“You know,” he remarks as more white text appears on the bottom edge of the screen. “I really hope this game gives me an option to just go outside and beat the shit out of those girls. I know you’re never supposed to punch a lady in real life, but this is a game and I’m a lady in this game, so I’ll punch whoever the fuck I want.”

 **W** [ _Use bobby pin to open door_ ] **A** [ _Scream for help_ ] **D** [ _Bust it open_ ]

Jack raises an incredulous eyebrow.

“How the fuck is some seventeen year old gonna break down a heavy wooden door?” he asks, shaking his head. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d love to see this girl kick some ass—but I don’t think she’s gonna be too successful going up against a slab of wood and metal.”

He chooses ‘use bobby pin’ without a second thought, because it’s obvious that no one’s around to give a shit what happens to this girl if they hadn’t heard her screaming earlier.

The girl unsurprisingly makes quick work of the door, and she exits, leaving Jack feeling a little underwhelmed.

“Well that was a little too easy,” he grouses, directing the girl out into the open air of a school hallway. “When do I get to kick some ass? I wanna kick some ass in these heels and this dress—I was promised evildoing and the only evil that’s been happening has been happening to me! That’s not what I’m here for!”

The girl wanders sluggishly down the hallway, with no clear objective in mind other than the faint thumping of dance music somewhere off in the distance. Jack fully expects it to get louder, the closer he maneuvers her to the flashing lights of what he can only assume to be the school gym, but instead the only thing he can hear is the sound of the bass drumming lowly in his ears.

It unnerves him, and he grimaces.

“I seriously don’t know what the fuck is going on,” he says, trying to figure out what to do next. “Obviously this game is choice based, but the atmosphere is so fucking strange. There’s no real music, just static and footsteps, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing here.”

The girl stops at the edge of the gym, just out of sight of the shadows of the dancing teens and the flickering strobe lights. More choices appear at the bottom.

 **W** [ _Go out and dance_ ] **A** [ _Call your mom to go home_ ] **D** [ _Find the girls and get revenge_ ]

“Oh hell yes,” Jack mashes the D button with a little more fervor than is probably necessary. “I have no idea what happens if you cry like a little bitch and call your mom, but I’m here to have fun, not to go the fuck home.”

He does a little dance, trying to work up as much energy as possible.

“The party’s just getting started!” he cheers. “No one’s going home anytime soon. In fact, if I have my way, no one’s going home at all! Everybody’s gonna die!”

The lights dim a little on screen the moment he chooses the third option, and the slight static that’s been buzzing in his ears builds a little, causing him to shiver.

[ _Locate the supply closet_ ]

“That’s not what I was expecting,” Jack’s startled into sobriety for a moment, then plasters a grin on his face. He can work with this, if nothing else. “Am I gonna beat the shit out of them with a mop? Drown them in a bucket of bleach?”

He laughs.

“This game is actually pretty dark,” he muses, unsure if he’s enjoying himself or not. “I mean, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before in a horror movie at the theater, but it’s different when it’s happening to you, you know? Most games would have had me pull out a shotgun by now and just settle for blasting everyone away.”

Jack locates the in-game supply closet with ease, seeing as how there’s a tiny glow emanating from the screen in the proper direction, and he watches as the game draws into a cut scene of the girl dumping a generous amount of bleach into a mop bucket, and diluting it with just enough water to fill it up halfway.

“I’m getting a bad sort of feeling about this,” Jack’s mouth twists into a slight frown of realization that his earlier predictions were probably correct. “I mean, they did dunk her head in the toilet and all that, and I know that’s a pretty unforgivable offense as far as being a high schooler goes, but something tells me that adding bleach into the equation is going to make things a little more…illegal.”

The girl, looking more determined now than before—even in her wreck of a prom dress—straightens back up and pauses in front of the door.

 **W** [ _Kill them all_ ] **A** [ _Kill the Queen Bee_ ] **D** [ _Kill yourself_ ]

Jack’s eyes get huge and he fumbles in abject horror and surprise.

“What the actual fuck, man?” he gapes, waving the cursor over the text burning a hole in his screen. “Why in the hell is killing yourself suddenly an option? That wasn’t part of the initial agreement here—I don’t wanna watch myself swallow a bucket of bleach!”

He blinks at the screen, still innocently blurred and waiting for his decision. Jack feels a little sick inside. He imagines the game can spawn several choice based patterns and endings, including ‘turn back’ options were he to chicken out of getting revenge, but he’s utterly sidelined by the fact that unprecedented suicide is even on the list.

“This took a turn for the worse real fucking fast,” he comments darkly, fingers feeling dirty on the keyboard all of a sudden as he’s faced with an even dirtier choice. “Why would you kill yourself out of humiliation when you could just go home? That was an option before, right? Now it’s literally impossible to continue this night without everything ending in death. This is fucked _up_.”

He sighs weakly, and hovers over the second choice.

“Some part of me really wants to see what she’ll do if I force her to kill them all,” he admits, shoving away the very real sensation of guilt that’s suddenly accompanying this decision. “But I feel like that sort of thing is shooting too high—killing all three of those girls is gonna be pretty messy, and hiding the bodies is going to be a bitch. Who wants a part of all that trouble? Not me, that’s who.”

Resolutely, he presses the A key and the girl’s sight homes in on a faintly glowing red trail, leading off to the right. Jack follows it, feeling the slight sense of dread and unease in the back of his head grow with every step the girl takes.

“I don’t understand what the point of this game is,” he tells the camera, hoping that the audience will be able to pick up on the bewilderment in his voice. “I thought this was supposed to be a game where you play as the bad guy, like some sort of flesh eating monster—not as a serial killer prom queen! This game is not at all what I expected.”

There’s a ringing in his ears that’s definitely not part of his imagination, and it’s growing unquestionably more unbearable the closer Jack’s character gets to her target.

He spots the bright orange dress of who he assumes to be the Queen Bee figure off near the corner of the game’s gym space, and the moment the girl’s dress is in view, another cutscene begins.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” barks the snotty looking blonde girl who’d just previously been giving the main character the business end of her pristine looking heels. “ _We—quite literally—dethrone your shabby little ass and you have the nerve to come back out here and meet us face to face? Do you have some kind of humiliation kink?_ ”

“Geez, this girl is a fucking bitch,” Jack can’t hold back the insult. He’s not all that good under pressure, and he’s even worse at holding his tongue. “I know that was kind of obvious already, but a part of me almost doesn’t feel bad for what I’m about to do.”

 **W** [ _I just want to be friends, okay?_ ] **A** [ _Apologize or you’ll regret it_ ] **S** [ _Jeremy told me he wanted you to meet him by the supply closet_ ] **D** [ _I’m telling the principal what you did to me_ ]

“Who the fuck is Jeremy?” Jack scrunches his eyes at the options on screen, and rubs a hand across his face. “Is he supposed to be the guy they’re fighting over or something? And is this girl really gonna believe a story like that, just out of the blue? What the fuck is the point of any of this?”

He’s tempted to choose the option to threaten the girl publicly, but he’s played enough horror games in the past and seen enough movies to know that can only end in further humiliation for his character. Begrudgingly, he chooses the third option, and watches as the girl manages to coerce the ‘Queen Bee’ into going off on her own to meet ‘Jeremy’, whoever the fuck that is.

“I have to admit,” he talks as he watches the girl follow her target distantly from behind. “This game is pretty unsettling, I’ll give it that. I don’t know if any of you can hear the weird static that’s playing in my headphones right now, but I can’t tell if it’s the game malfunctioning or if it’s intentional background noise. This is only a Beta version of the game so bugs and stuff happen, but the sound of it is absolutely fucking me up right now.”

It’s not a lie. Jack is rarely personally upset by any game, regardless of jumpscares or gore or emotionally heavy content, but there’s an eerie chill about this game that he can’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it’s the way that it seems like there’s more to it that meets the eye, or that he’s anticipating something much more horrific to take place without any warning whatsoever, but it’s getting to him.

He definitely dislikes it.

Jack’s character’s nemesis stops short outside of the supply closet, looking around in confusion and calling out for the Jeremy guy like she’s actually expecting him to be there, and Jack watches as the main character seizes the chance to shove the girl into the closet and shut the door behind the both of them.

Queen Bee starts screaming, as he’d expected, but in a sudden display of brute strength, the former prom queen slams the girl’s head against a shelf, stunning her briefly.

Jack doesn’t know how many times he can say ‘holy shit’ before it starts to lose its meaning, but if anyone’s going to test that out, it’s going to be him.

 **W** [ _Knock her out_ ] **A** [ _Threaten her_ ] **D** [ _Drown her in the mop bucket_ ]

“Fuck,” he curses again, realizing how deep of a hole he’s dug himself. “There’s literally no other option I can choose but to kill her at this point.  I mean, we’ve come this far already, and I’m not gonna chicken out on getting my revenge this late in the game, but both of the other options will eventually involve me getting caught, and Jack never gets himself caught.”

It’s sound logic, maybe. Jack shoves aside the weirdly dark part of his brain that disregards better judgment and finds the idea of killing the girl the most satisfying option, pressing D again before he can stop himself.

His character twists Queen Bee’s arms around behind her back, and shoves her head into the bleach filled mop bucket viciously, bashing her victim’s forehead against the faucet above it. Jack cringes involuntarily.

He watches open mouthed as the girl fights for her life, screaming and jerking as she chokes on a mixture of bleach and tap water, and his character only holds her down tighter, hair spilling out of her makeshift bun once again.

It’s absolutely awful, and there’s almost no blood involved whatsoever.

“I fucking hate the idea of drowning,” he manages to grind out, hiding his mouth behind his hands. “It’s supposed to be one of the worst ways to die and I don’t want to even think about it most of the time, much less watch it. Plus, the fact that the stuff in the bucket is mostly bleach—Jesus fucking Christ that’s nasty. Her eyes are probably gonna burn out of her skull.”

The cut scene isn’t all that long, but it feels like an eternity before Queen Bee finally goes still and silent, her arms and legs splayed out in all directions, dress stained with bleach and skin marred with scratches.

Jack’s character lets the girl’s body go and it slumps backwards, revealing her slack jawed face, dripping wet with chemical water and frozen in terror. There’s a steady stream of red drizzling from her lips where the bleach tore into the soft flesh of her esophagus, and her eyes are bloodshot and filmy.

 **W** [ _Hide the body_ ] **A** [ _Go home_ ] **D** [ _Celebrate_ ]

“Celebrate?” Jack’s voice is hoarse with disbelief. “You get a fuckin’ swirlie on prom night, kill a girl in cold blood, and at the end of everything you just go back out and celebrate? Celebrate what? A life in prison? Certifiable insanity? Goddamn, I’ll never play a prank on anyone ever again if the end result is me being forced to choke on a gallon of bleach.”

Jack hovers over the ‘W’ key, ready to choose the safer option in light of all the horrific strings he’s already pulled in such a short amount of time.

He doesn’t press it.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, trying to swallow the morbid taste of curiosity that’s building rapidly in his mouth. Some part of him is whispering that there’s no point in pulling punches when he’s long since gone in for the kill. “I’m only doing this for the sake of the video.”

With the sensation of acid rising in his throat, he chooses ‘celebrate’ and hides his face behind his hands as his character gleefully stomps the girl’s already corroded eyes out with the heels of her shoes, and the screen goes black.

 _Congratulations_.

Jack shakes his head furiously.

“I don’t feel like congratulating myself,” he retorts, not at all joking with himself. “That was the nastiest thing I’ve ever seen in my fucking life. Who made this fucking game?”

The word fades away, only to be replaced with more text, and Jack scans the script halfheartedly, still sick in the gut with mild nausea. 

**ANTI**

That was quite a celebration.

You were certainly the life of the party…

Was it everything you were expecting?

  * Wrath: 45%
  * Pride: 40%
  * Envy: 15%
  * Greed: 0%
  * Lust: 0%
  * Gluttony: 0%
  * Sloth: 0%



You chose:

**[ _Use bobby pin to open door_ ]**

**[ _Find the girls and get revenge_ ]**

**[ _Locate the supply closet_ ]**

**[ _Kill the Queen Bee_ ]**

**[ _Jeremy told me he wanted you to meet him by the supply closet_ ]**

**[ _Drown her in the mop bucket_ ]**

**[ _Celebrate_ ]**

 

 ** _Madness profile_ :** Vengeful, sadistic, prideful, vain, goal oriented.

**_Bloodshed_ :**

  * Minimal—you prefer not to get your hands dirty.
  * No melee weapons used, only chemicals and minor blunt force.



**_Collective chaos_ : **

  * Enjoys creative torment.
  * Utilized manipulation and subterfuge, then an aggressive approach.
  * Blatant sadism apparent—chose to focus on one victim and not on self.
  * Ignored open invitations to turn back. Not self-sacrificing.



**ANTI** delights in the suffering of others.

Jack leans back in his chair, glancing wearily at the camera. “What the fuck, man?” he sighs out loud, battling away the first stirrings of what is probably a colossal headache.

“Why do I have a fucking murder profile in this game? Is this supposed to help me progress? Am I supposed to feel good about enjoying the suffering of others?”

Any energy he’d managed to drum up prior to playing seems suddenly zapped from his entire frame, and while he’s pretty sure his discomfort is visible on camera, he also can’t bring himself to care.

Jack pulls the headphones from his ears and lets them hang loosely around his neck, running an exasperated hand through his hair. The static is practically screaming in his ears and he can’t take it anymore. He’s done.

“Ok, so I don’t know how any of you guys felt about that experience, but I personally don’t know if I’ll play this again.” Jack’s pretty positive that he’s going to get a head start on deleting this from his computer as soon as he finishes recording, but the audience doesn’t need to know that. “Maybe if I want to torture myself again by torturing other people—seeing as how that’s apparently something I enjoy—I’ll give it another try, but for now I’m going to leave this episode here.”

He does his outro with as much vigor as he can possibly manage, but he thinks it might come off a little more frustration-induced than usual. As soon as the recording is off, Jack shuts his entire computer down. He’ll edit everything later when his head doesn’t feel like it’s about to split in two.

He trudges towards the nearest flat surface, flopping face down onto his bed and groaning heavily into his pillow. He needs to sleep this—whatever it is—off as soon as possible, or his videos are going to suffer for it.

An image of the girl’s bleeding, eyeless skull flashes back into his head, and Jack’s own eyelids pop back open like they’re on a spring.

‘ _Tell me again exactly why you stopped playing that one game?_ ’ he texts Mark, praying that this is a temporary insanity brought on by a lack of creative energy and even less time spent sleeping. ‘ _The latin one_.’

It takes him almost an hour to achieve something close to sleep, murky and irritable and not at all relaxing. Jack’s fingers twitch anxiously as he lies there, dreaming only in static and flashes of orange silk.

He doesn’t hear his phone buzz nearly two hours later, the screen lighting up with the first contact he’s had with the outside world in days.

 **Mark:** _I haven’t been the same since I logged out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and leave us a comment to let us know how we're doing! We're really excited to be working on this together, and hopefully it shows! Much love! <3


	3. it's the house telling you to close your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing feels right to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men. 
> 
> I'm super sorry I got this up so late. A lot has happened this week and I've been so tired. But hopefully, Quin will have her chapter out on time for you guys. I'll do my best to have my next part up on Tuesday. 
> 
> The positive response on this has been tremendous. Thank you so much for the support! Quin and I really, really appreciate it.

Mark rubs at his tired eyes.

It's been like this for a few days now. The tiredness, at least. The off feeling has been present for the last week, but nonetheless the weariness in combination isn’t helping. The fatigue in his body isn't lost on him, but it isn't like he hasn't been sleeping. Honestly, he's probably been sleeping a little too much, yet no matter how much he sleeps, the tired won’t really go away.

Recording has been especially hard. His fans can spot his discomfort from a mile away, and he’s been receiving a slew of tweets and comments about his lack of enthusiasm in his later videos. A lot of people are speculating (according to Tumblr) that he’s heartbroken or some equally as weird shit but truthfully, he’s just _really_ damn tired. 

Loading up his computer for the day, Mark sees the icon for the indie game on his computer, mocking him in a weird way that he can’t describe. It’s been about a week since he’s played the first part, and he thinks about recording another episode, because there have been requests for it. It is one of the more “interesting” games he’s played on the channel in the recent months, but he can’t get over how it rubs him the wrong way. There hasn’t been overwhelming demand for it, but enough where usually Mark would get in and record another part. But he really, really doesn’t want to.

He considers, briefly, just playing it for a little while without recording it. Mark doesn’t play games in his spare time anymore, and though he’s already behind on recording for today, its got this weird pull about it that makes him want to give it another shot.

Maybe it’s the gamer in him. Or maybe it’s the fruitless belief that there’s more to it than senseless, grotesque violence. 

Quickly, though, he shuts down the idea. He doesn’t want to see what else the game has to offer. The story of the game isn’t exciting for him to try it again. Mark decides with a sense of finality that if he’s going to avoid the temptation, he should delete it and forget it existed.

Mark launches his email and scrolls through the sea of letters to find the one from the developer in general. Without reading the email again, he deletes it, and Mark’s mind repeats to him, _out of sight, out of mind._

It doesn’t seem to be working.

He then opens the programs menu and scrolls through the long, long list on his computer, before finally settling on it. He inputs the control to uninstall the software on the device, and a little loading box pops up. 

_65%...66%...67%..._

_Program successfully uninstalled._

Mark breathes out. He glances over his shoulder, and then towards the window, which is covered by the curtains and blinds. Drumming his fingers on his desk gently, he licks his lips, sitting there for a moment.

Listening.

LA is never quiet. But the rustle of the cars below grate on his ears, and he hears all the horns and blasts and screeching tires. Police sirens. Ambulance sirens.

_They’re coming for you._

Mark shakes his head. Putting a hand on his forehead, he wonders where that thought even came from. He stands from his computer desk, unwilling to record right now, because there’s no point in trying to act fake. He’s prided himself in showing emotion, real emotion, to his viewers, and he can’t go back on that now. Any emotion he shows right now won’t be pretty for the camera. 

Leaving the room, he goes to shut the door, but finds himself leaving it open.

Just in case. The door squeaks if it moves. 

~~

The day rolls into night, and after a half hearted attempt to record something stupid, he plops himself down on the couch and sits there for what remains of the night. The television on low, Mark ends up falling into a lucid sleep, only just vaguely aware of his surroundings.

Voices from the TV roll in and out of hearing, and that’s all good, but despite it being the middle of summer, there’s something cold about the room. The A/C unit can’t be on--Mark hasn’t turned it on all day--but he pushes it off as some sort of weird, lack of movement that brings about the chill. 

(That’s not how anatomy works, is it?)

Static rings. The voices from the TV begin to meld into the static, faint distorted tones whispering to him. It almost sounds like words. But not enough to sound human. It’s not human, but it is. It’s human mixed with static.

Mark cracks open his eyes a fraction. On his carpet are tiny flecks of black, growing larger, and larger, closer and closer. Spiders, they’re spiders. Where are they coming from? Why are there so many?

Something grips his arm. Too tight. Too near him. Who is with him? Mark jerks, and opens his eyes all the way. The room spins for a moment. But it’s empty except for him.

He breathes out. He listens to the voices from the television, and they make sense. It’s simple jabbering of characters he’ll never know. Mark swallows, rubbing his neck. 

Glancing at the clock, it’s 10:15 PM, meaning that he should probably get to sleep if he wants to have any hope of recording tomorrow. 

As he stands to go to bed, he hears the door to the recording room creak. 

~~  
_Why do I keep hitting?_

_It’s the only thing you’ve done right._

~~

At once, it looks like _Ad Acheronta_. 

Mark surveys the landscape, on his knees, his eyes following the creases of the walls. To the left, a baseball bat lies. To the right, a box of half-used thumbtacks. 

_This is what you wanted._

He reaches out for the bat, unsure of as to why. But maybe he does know why. He holds the metal in his hands, surprisingly cold to his touch, as he raises it above his head.

_Don’t, don’t._

_Yes, yes._

He swings it down. The blood that splatters on his face startles him. His heart races in his chest as he raises it again, swinging it down again. And again. And again.

_Stop, stop, stop._

_Keep going._

Mark tastes iron is in his mouth. Whether that’s from him biting his own tongue or the spray of brain matter from the corpse beneath him, he can’t tell. But eventually, he stops hitting and starts clawing, tearing away at the skin, fearing that if he stops, the shadows will close in, and wrap around him, and the corpse will rise and do the same thing to him and--

_I don’t want to die._

_Keep going._

There’s so much blood on his hands.

Mark knows, somehow, that it’s a dream. But that doesn’t get rid of the sticky, wet sensation on his fingers, looking down at a mangled body that he can’t even distinguish as a person. 

_Did I really do this?_

_Of course you did._

The skin caked underneath his nails crawls like worms, a ghastly reminder of where his hands have been, what they’ve done. Shadows curl in around him, almost laughing, urging Mark to claw until there’s nothing left. 

_Why did I kill them?_

_They were in your way._

They’d tried to stop him. From completing his goal. From enacting revenge. He deserves revenge. He should get this. No one should stand in his way. He’s earned it. He’s earned it.

_I didn’t want this._

_Yes, you did._

They hurt him first. He had been defending himself. The mangled corpse beneath him is a product of his desire to live. Nothing more. He wouldn’t have hurt him if he hadn’t gotten in his way. He made him do this.

_The shadows made me do this._

_Look at your hands._

Mark buries his face in his bloody hands. He wants to wake up. He doesn’t want to look at the corpse anymore. He doesn’t want to look at what he’s done. 

_They’re coming for you._

He feels it. Mark pulls his hands away and they’re there. The eyes. The green eyes that haunt him. Mock him. Taunt him. They threaten to tell. They know what he’s done. They know what he is.

They know what he’s done.

Fumbling for the thumbtacks, Mark yanks a few out and with trembling hands he jabs one into the right eye. Blood splurts out of it, making a sickening squish underneath the pointed tip. He yanks it across the cornea, and it _tears_ , some sort of liquid coating his fingers, chilly in temperature. Panting, he retracts it, looking at the mess he’s made.

But the other one still watches.

Using the same tack, he jabs it into the other eye. Using the same struggling motion, he tears across the surface of the eye, his fingers receiving a new coat of eye-juice, or whatever the fuck it is. Mark leaves that one there, sated, trying to catch his breath.

He backs away from the body, sliding across the floor. Mark sits in the corner, shaking, but the shadows aren’t satisfied. The shadows still know.

Green eyes. They still know. They’re gone, but they know. 

_Look at what you’ve done._

~~

Mark jolts awake. 

A thin layer of sweat covers him from head to toe, and Mark feels at his neck, rubbing his fingers together. Just to see. Just to--

No blood. Just skin. Just oil. Entirely, completely his own. 

Mark glances at the clock. 3:04 AM. He can’t sleep in his sweat like this. It’s uncomfortable, and gross, and he doubts he’ll fall back asleep at this rate. 

Begrudgingly, he pulls the covers back and gets out of bed, groping his way along the hallway because he can’t be bothered to turn any of the lights on. 

Halfway to the bathroom, Mark hears a soft creak. Sucking in a breath, he whips his head around. But nothing is there. Nothing peeks its head out to greet him.

Only silence. Only still.

Mark turns again. With a quickened pace, he enters the bathroom, switching on the light. It flickers, briefly, before he sees his own reflection. 

It’s still him. It’s still completely him. No blood, no shadows. It’s still him.

With a shiver, Mark turns on the water to the shower, letting the hot water spray for a few moments before stripping down and getting in. He stands under the waterfall, taking a comfort in the burn, finding the tension in his shoulders relaxing involuntarily. 

_Creak._

Mark jumps. He yanks back the curtain, looking to see who’s entered, and _who could possibly be entering at 3 AM?_

But the door is closed, and everything is as it should be. 

He lets out a shudder. Suddenly, he just really doesn’t want to be in the shower anymore.

After a few more seconds, he reaches his hand out to shut the water off, and something cold encircles his wrist. He plays it off as the cool air from outside, but when it squeezes, sinking sharp nails into the skin, he yelps, jumping backwards.

Mark slams his head into the far wall, hissing in pain as it makes connection. Panic settles in and he trembles, trying to see what grabbed him, but nothing is there. 

He waits. Tentatively, he crawls across the bottom of the tub and shuts off the water, before slowly rising. Not taking his eyes off of the spot where he’d been grabbed, he grasps outside of the curtain for the towel he always leaves hanging up, wrapping it around himself before he hesitantly draws back the curtain.

He’s alone. 

Mark breathes out. He steps out, taking a glance at his reflection in the mirror. He looks like himself. Everything is normal. He’s still him.

He blinks. The mirror cracks, and he shrieks, startled. 

Against his better judgment, Mark goes to touch it, but it’s not there. It feels like smooth mirror, fogged up a fraction from the steam. He wipes a circle into it, gazing upon his features, blinking. 

There’s a smile. Mark isn’t smiling.

Or is he? He raises a hand to his mouth, and maybe he is. Honestly, Mark can’t quite tell. 

He rubs at his eyes, trying to make sense of it, and when there’s no crack in the mirror at all, when there’s no indication that it had ever been broken, Mark thinks he’s more tired than he originally thought.

Sighing, he shuts off the light, pausing at the door to let his eyes adjust, before he slowly makes his way back out into the hall. Before he makes it to his room, though, he stops and glances at his recording room. 

The door is open. Just the way he’d left it. But something about its appearance now makes him uneasy. Like something is watching. Waiting. Expecting.

Mark closes the door, listening to it squeak and click. He lets his hand rest on the handle for a brief period, before making his way back to his room.

Closing his own bedroom door, he dries himself off properly and pulls on fresh clothes. He runs the towel through his hair, sitting down on his bed. It moans under his weight.

Mark checks his phone from the nightstand. He doesn’t expect any messages, but he’s surprised when he sees a notification. 

**Jack** : _Tell me again exactly why you stopped playing that one game? The latin one._

Mark can’t formulate a response. There’s not a lot he can say. In a way, he’s happy to see Jack’s name, because it’s been a while since he’s made any contact with anyone, but he can’t think of a way to answer the question. There’s not a lot to say. 

But he tries. For Jack. Formulating a half response, he begins to type back

Then hears it.

_Creak._

Mark drops his phone, fixating his gaze on the door. Distantly, he swears the shadows are pooling into the room out of the corner of his eye, filling with spider apparitions that scuttle closer with each second. His heart thuds so loudly in his ears Mark fears they’ll hear him and eat him alive. 

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. They’ll hear him. 

_They’re coming for you._


	4. sleep is just a cousin of death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack's mind is his own worst enemy...or is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm very sorry this was a day late. I've been sick on and off and I had this written but unedited yesterday, and couldn't post it before falling asleep. Hopefully you'll be forgiving.
> 
> Secondly, PLEASE HEED THE ABOVE WARNINGS. This chapter may be very triggering to some people, as it includes suicidal thoughts, body horror, hallucinations, hallucinated self harm, and the general descent into madness. If you're too uncomfortable to read these things, please click away.
> 
> Title is from Diamonds Aren't Forever by Bring Me the Horizon. I could write a million fics based off of only their lyrics.

**_DAY 1_ **

Jack’s totally fine.

He’s been awake since 4 AM and recorded at least six different games since then, chugging through his second pot of coffee and blinking rapidly at the colors flashing on his screen.

This is the most productive he’s been in months, he thinks as he dies for the twenty fourth time in a boss battle that’s only at half the difficulty he might normally find challenging. Who cares if he’s playing like shit? Everyone loves a good rage-style video now and again, and his limbs are jittery with pent up energy he has no explanation for.

The boss in question smashes his character’s skull in and Jack nearly faceplants into his keyboard, caffeinated fingers quivering over top of the keys of their own accord. Every game he’s picked to play this morning has either been trippy as fuck or utterly mind numbing—good old senseless, familiar gun violence in a video game.

No horror, no over-dramatic girls in shiny dresses with eyeless faces and scream scarred mouths, no chemical deaths. Nothing out of the ordinary—just a rising death toll on the upper left hand corner of his screen and gunfire flickering across his vision.

Perfectly normal Saturday.

He can’t remember if he had breakfast this morning or not, but he knows he ate lunch yesterday, and there was a snack somewhere in between then and sleeping, so he’s probably fine.

Mark had texted him back last night, sometime after he’d fallen into a false sleep that had done more to confuse him than rest him, but Jack hadn’t read it until he’d downed at least three cups of coffee. The message didn’t make any sense, because games didn’t change people, least of all people who played them for a living, and Mark wasn’t the kind of person to pretend otherwise.

He hasn’t heard from Mark ever since he’d responded: ‘ _What the hell does that mean?_ ’, but then again, he hadn’t counted on it. It’d been enough of a shock to find even one text from Mark after so many weeks of utter silence; he wasn’t expecting lightning to strike twice on his behalf.

He’s just a little worried that there might be something going on with Mark other than his somewhat socially obstructive work ethic. He hadn’t been the first person on twitter to comment about Mark’s lack of media interaction, or interaction in general, and the idea that Mark’s actually isolating himself without reason is mildly worrying.

His character is obliterated into pieces by an axe swinging towards his head out of absolutely nowhere, and Jack groans so loudly he thinks the microphone vibrates. Normally caffeine does wonders to improve his focus, but not today.

He stares at the ‘game over’ screen with disdainful exhaustion, and contemplates kicking himself for spiraling like this. He’d like to blame a lack of decent sleep, but Jack never claimed to be a healthy or consistent sleeper anyhow, so that’s off the table immediately.

He could point the finger at stress or boredom or an incredibly shitty diet, but nothing’s changed for the worse recently and he can’t cite dissatisfaction at his job for the lack of enthusiasm.

Truthfully, he’d like to be able to close his eyes for longer than a second without hearing the heavy, incessant static buzzing in his ears, but he can’t do that either.

Sighing with resignation that’s only slightly bitter to the taste, Jack presses ‘restart’ on the level and glances at his half empty mug of coffee.

He’s going to have to brew a new pot soon.

**_DAY 2_ **

Jack is totally, completely fine.

He thinks he slept for three hours last night, but he can’t be sure. Things were happening during those three hours, but whether any of them were real or not is still completely up in the air.

Jack averaged a total of eleven games yesterday, and got almost halfway through editing them before he’d nearly sleepwalked towards the nearest horizontal surface that looked even slightly inviting.

His phone hasn’t buzzed since Mark texted him the first time, and his blood must be entirely coffee grounds by this point, for all he’s been inhaling pot after pot of the stuff. He’d eaten a sandwich at some point, but never finished it because the sound of chewing started to sound like TV static, and he had to throw it away.

Jack’s lying on the couch after adding six more games to his queue, pretending he doesn’t have almost thirteen videos waiting somewhere to be edited, and the TV’s blank and quiet. He still can’t close his eyes without his ears betraying him, hearing sounds that don’t exist when he knows his computer has been turned off since early evening.

There’s nothing on in his house—not his phone, not his electronics, not the fucking alarm clock in his bedroom, but he still hears it. It’s louder in the darkness, when the lights are off and he’s trying to reach unconsciousness, and it fills his ears and his brain until they’re brimming over with it.

He buries his face in the couch pillow, trying to block out the sound of a million tiny fingernails scrabbling at his eardrums, and immediately regrets it. His back is exposed; the hair on the back of his neck prickling in time with the scraping nails, and Jack jumps a mile.

There’s nothing in the room with him—no sounds, no movements, not even a fly buzzing in the windowsill. He’s alone, like always, but the static insists otherwise.

Nothing can block it out.

Jack stares at the ceiling for hours, ignoring the abnormally omnipresent chill in the air and the way his own footsteps towards the linen closet sound like they’re coming from behind him instead of beneath him. He feels slightly sick.

The blanket is paper thin against his skin and the goosebumps don’t disappear. Jack almost regrets turning off all the clocks.

**_DAY 3_ **

Jack is totally, completely, absolutely fine.

There’s almost an hour between the last time he looked at the clock and now, and he doesn’t remember anything that happened in that space of time so he must have slept.

He’d rather he just stayed awake.

Somehow, the static is even louder in his dreams than it is while he’s awake. It spreads across every corner of his mind, settling into the cracks and drowning out his subconscious thoughts until it sounds less like a broken television and more like a hundred thousand souls screaming all at once.

Dramatic? Maybe.

Real life got a little fuzzy somewhere in between the last game he played and the last meal he can remember eating. There’s not a lot going on in his head at the moment that isn’t centered around exhaustion.

Distantly, he knows something must be wrong, because he’s slept maybe six hours in the past three nights and he hasn’t yet collapsed. Even his insomniac mind has faltered under the weight of too much activity in the past, and he should have long since passed out by now.

He ghosts in and out of the shower, the water pinking his skin in splotches as he stands under the spray, and the bathroom mirror feels ice cold under his touch.

Jack’s eyes are sunken in, rimmed with red and bruised beneath the lower lids, a testament to the insidious fatigue that’s stemming through his blood and clouding his mind. He looks like he’s lost a fight with an invisible attacker, one who feeds off of motivation and replaces it with caffeine and paranoia.

Water drips down his forehead and trails down his cheek, and Jack thinks grimly that he looks more soggy and used than clean.

He scrubs uselessly at his face with the towel, peeking back over it half-heartedly as though just drying off can wipe away days of miserable weariness as though they were dirt.

The eyes staring back at him are not his own.

Jack sucks in a horrified breath, blinking furiously at his own reflection, but the image before him doesn’t change.

He looks terrified, all damp skin and drenched green hair, but the inky black sockets ruin the effect. His eyes are gone, completely blacked out of his skull and Jack rubs at them furiously. There’s no blood, no black tar on his fingers and his eyes feel fully intact but the mirror is lying to him, showing him something unlike reality.

_It must be the lack of sleep_ , he thinks wildly to himself, unable to tear his gaze from the thing in the mirror. He’s never hallucinated before; even after nightmares he’d always awoken knowing that none of it had been real.

_This must be a warning sign._

Desperately, Jack rummages through his cabinets, looking for anything designed to put him to sleep for longer than a couple of hours. He’s going to kick this thing in the ass, whatever it is, eyeless nonsense and all.

Jack swallows twice the recommended dose of sleeping pills, and hopes that when he blacks out, he doesn’t wake up for a long time.

**_DAY 4_ **

He spends half of the next morning throwing up things he doesn’t remember eating, and by the time his stomach seems to settle itself, it’s midday and he’s accomplished nothing. Sleep had come in fits and bursts the night before, unlike he’d originally hoped after dosing himself to the gills, and he feels no sense of achievement for getting any sleep at all.

He’s been avoiding mirrors since he’d peeled himself out of bed, afraid to confront whatever might be waiting for him, but the amount of reflective surfaces in his house is utterly astonishing. Water is the only thing he can stomach, and even that doesn’t last long when he almost catches sight of his face in the screen of the television and the glass doesn’t stay in his hand.

Jack can’t bring himself to record anything, but he can’t bring himself to sit still either. He’s too queasy and uninspired to play games, and lying on the couch only gives the paranoia in his head a chance to dig its claws in. He doesn’t even know what he’s paranoid _about_ , but he sure as hell knows it’s there.

His only other option is to go outside.

Putting on shoes and a jacket feels like trying to get dressed with puppet hands, and he regrets his decision not to hide indoors the moment he hits the streets. Everything is cold and grey, and the people he passes glance away as soon as they see him, like he looks as worn thin as he feels.

Jack panics a little, because he hasn’t looked in a mirror since his eyes turned black and maybe it wasn’t a hallucination? Maybe his brain was telling the truth and he’s actually getting sick, not just mentally but physically too.

His need to buy more sleeping pills that aren’t horrendously out of date outweighs his desire to run back indoors, because never sleeping again is a fate worse than—well, not death. Honestly, being dead means he’d be something close to asleep, and permanent sleep is close enough to his current goal to be satisfactory.

He trudges along, laser focused on the concrete beneath his feet and praying he doesn’t run into any telephone poles in his determination not to make eye contact with anyone. Someone might try to talk to him and that would be the icing on the incredibly disappointing cake of his day.

The shop is cold and sterile smelling inside, like a hospital ward, and Jack shuffles towards the medicine aisle at a painfully slow pace. He knows he can’t get a prescription for real sleeping pills without going to see a doctor, but there are still sleep aids available and clearly relying on his own brain to shut the fuck up at night is no longer going to suffice.

Jack contemplates buying several different brands, liquids and tablets and herbal teas designed to relax normal humans with slightly irregular brainwaves. He’s pretty sure that what he’s dealing with goes beyond basic anxiety or an overactive imagination, but repression and denial are an art form and he’s well on his way to becoming a professional.

**Don’t even try.**

Jack blinks at the box in his hands, the bold-face text jumping out at him from the white background, and he frowns. The words waver slightly, but don’t disappear and Jack feels the nausea from before settle back into his gut.

He shoves the box back onto the shelf and grabs for a bottle instead. Generic brands are clearly not the way to go, he thinks, checking the dosage chart. He never liked popping pills anyways.

**You aren’t dreaming.**

For the second time that day, Jack loses his grip on something and the bottle of liquid melatonin falls to the floor, rolling past his foot. He stares at it like he’s been burned and it takes a few seconds for him to work up the courage to pick it back up.

His hands are shaking as he puts it back, not wanting to check the label to see if he’s imagining things again, and he bites his lip. He _cannot_ leave here empty handed, no matter how much his brain seems intent on making him.

Tentatively, as though he’s being watched from all sides, Jack reaches for the first box of medicated herbal tea he can find, and glances at the crudely drawn picture of a smiling moon. It’s eyeless, and Jack swallows hard.

**You’ll never sleep again.**

Jack hasn’t cried in public since he was at least five, but he breaks his twenty plus year streak in the aisle of a convenience store two blocks from his house.

**_DAY 5_ **

The static is back, and it’s three thirty in the morning.

Jack has officially been awake for well over twenty four hours, but he’s texting Mark like it’s noon and he’s not four panic attacks deep into a full blown mental breakdown.

**Jack:** _I’m not okay, Mark._

He waits, setting the phone face down onto the mattress because he can still see himself in the dark screen and he doesn’t want to know the truth about what’s there. He hasn’t spoken to anyone in days, and he hasn’t recorded since he’d been ill the morning before, but the queue he set up earlier has been keeping his channel updated since then.

He wonders if everyone can tell he isn’t okay.

His phone buzzes within two minutes, and he jumps so violently his bones rattle beneath his skin.

**Mark:** _What do you mean?_

He stares at the words swimming before his eyes, and has no idea how to describe his afflictions to Mark, who has no way of knowing what he’s been dealing with these past few days.

**Jack:** _I don’t sleep anymore…I’m all fucked up and I don’t know why._

**Mark:** _You never slept anyways._

Jack’s a little taken aback, because normally Mark’s a bit more sympathetic to his feelings whenever Jack’s down about something or other, but then again, maybe he’s not the only one feeling off.

**Jack:** _What about you? I haven’t heard from you in forever._

**Mark:** _I haven’t felt this good in ages._

That’s new. Jack can’t pretend he’s not surprised. Mark hadn’t sounded anything close to alright in his text from earlier in the week, and his lack of communication with anyone doesn’t point to good vibes at all, but Mark has no reason to lie.

Right?

**Mark:** _You could too, you know._

Jack’s startled by the cryptic double text. This conversation is not going the way he’d imagined it would, not when he’d finally given in to the desire to talk to someone, anyone.

**Jack:** _I could what?_

**Mark:** _Feel good again. Better even._

What he wouldn’t give for that. Jack’s resolutely developed an aversion to thinking about how he can still be alive after so little sleep over the course of almost a week. Asking too many questions leads to getting answers he’s nowhere near ready to handle.

**Jack:** _How? Nothing works. I’m seeing things and I can’t even look in the mirror anymore._

Awkward conversations or no, he misses Mark. Jack hasn’t thought about much in the past few days that wasn’t panic or exhaustion related, and the idea of being around other people seems more terrifying than comforting, but his feelings for Mark haven’t changed.

He wishes things were different, that he wasn’t an insomniac struggling to maintain contact with reality, and that he and Mark weren’t so many thousands of miles apart. Jack can’t quite understand how his very much articulate affections for Mark have remained intact since he started spiraling downwards, but he clings to them like a life raft. They’re the only proof he has that he’s still got some semblance of sanity after all this.

**Mark:** _What are you seeing in the mirror?_

Jack’s brain pastes an image of his oily black eyes on every wall in his mind, and he cringes.

**Jack:** _I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not real anyways._

**Mark:** _How do you know? Mirrors never lie._

Jack can feel his breathing speed up again, the first stirrings of a panic attack rising in his throat. Mark has never been this short with him, not ever, and he doesn’t believe his friend’s words about feeling better than before.

**Jack:** _What’s wrong with you? Are you sure you’re okay?_

**Mark:** _I already told you I’m fine. You would be too if you’d accept what’s happening._

The cold sweat breaks out over his skin like bugs swarming from the insides of his every pore. Jack hunches over, willing his breathing to calm itself, but the sight of Mark’s words burning holes into his skull is working against him.

**Jack:** _What the fuck do you think is happening? How would you even know?_

His phone buzzes so quickly he wonders how Mark could have even read his text in time.

**Mark:** _You’re dying, Jack._

Jack swipes furiously at the messages, trying to erase the conversation and his fingerprints leave swathes of blood against the too-bright screen.

The phone slides from his grip onto the comforter, staining it red and Jack stares in horror at his hands.

They’re shaking, the skin turning grey and parched around the knuckles and the bone curling of its own accord until his fingers are bent at angles no human can achieve.

Blood seeps from beneath his fingernails, and Jack chokes on the sac of air in his throat as they turn black one by one, rotting from his flesh in real time and detaching at the edges. His nails drop off— _one, two, three, four, five_ —until his fingers are spindly nubs and he feels bile churning in his gut.

Jack fists his hands in agony and watches as they peel and crumble before him, flesh sloughing off in rancid strips as his bones turn to dust in equal measure.

He doesn’t scream until they’re gone completely.

**_DAY 6_ **

Jack doesn’t touch his phone after that.

He doesn’t go into his room, doesn’t look at his hands or his feet or his face, just sits on the floor of the shower stall for nearly an hour the next day, and contemplates drowning himself.

The water is heavy on his skull and it shakes him, how much six days can change someone’s attitude towards death by fluid inhalation, but the temptation is still there.

He scratches at his arm, still refusing to look at the skin, and closes his eyes. The static has been such a constant presence in his head since he’d played that damned game that it’s become the least of his worries.

Nothing is getting better and no one is around to help.

At this rate, someone will find him in a month’s time, bloated and pale in a tub full of water with both eyes clawed out and it’ll be a blessing. Jack can think of more painful ways to go, and he wants to sleep so, so badly.

He’s lost track of the hours since he’s actually been unconscious, but he cried yesterday when he spat maggots out of an apple and blinked them all away only seconds later.

He doesn’t know what’s real and what wants to kill him, and maybe what wants to kill him _is_ real, but he can’t tell and that’s what’s going to be his downfall.

He scratches harder, the heat from the shower making his skin itch and he can’t help the way his hands move on their own when he’s not looking at them. Jack doesn’t know what’s harder to deal with, the hallucinations that plague him when the sun is shining outside his window, or the way the feeling of being watched intensifies once it’s dark outside.

He’s drawn to the bathroom mirror in that way humans are when they know they shouldn’t be curious about something, and it’s eating away at his head. He wants to look—wants to see with his own eyes if his reflection is back to normal or if he’s really changing into something he can’t recognize.

His fingernails dig harder into his skin and the pain is grounding, because outside Jack is no longer able to tell whether he’s being attacked or he’s attacking himself. He can’t tell where his hallucinations end and the danger begins, and the idea that there is no danger is almost more frightening than the alternative.

Jack’s never imagined that he was capable of dreaming up things this terrible—of hands rotting off and bugs in his food and words appearing where they don’t belong. If everything he’s felt up into this point has all been a fever dream brought on by something he can’t identify, then he’s powerless to fight it. He can’t combat his own mind, and he can’t leave his fears on the shelf when he doesn’t feel like listening to them anymore.

Jack has to live in his own head and his head is betraying him, cell by cell, thought by thought.

He can’t escape himself.

Red runs down his wrist out of the corner of his eye and Jack can’t pay it any mind. The water is hotter than the pain of breaking his own skin, and it’s the clearest thing he’s felt in days, the only sensation he can put a name to without second guessing himself.

He’s exhausted every resource he can think of: playing games, going outside, talking to Mark, ignoring the problem. Nothing has worked and he’s still here, shaking on the floor of his bathtub and praying for sleep to come, in whatever form it may take. He can’t afford to be picky anymore.

His arm feels numb now, like he’s sliced through every nerve ending south of his elbow until it’s no longer functional, and Jack wishes the numbness would envelop him whole until he can’t feel a damn thing anymore. Pain is an effective distraction, but not being able to feel at all sounds like a more concrete solution.

Jack scrapes harder at the mess of his arm and twists his fingers in the wound, squeezing his eyes shut against the whispering that’s started in the back of his head, unintelligible but growing in persistence.

_At the seams._

Jack can’t drown out the words, no matter how hard he wants them gone. They’re stamped across his psyche like white hot brands, and his eyes slide to his wrist, unbidden.

_Rip yourself apart at the seams._

_Make yourself new. Make yourself better._

His fingers are warped together, knuckle deep in blood despite the spray of water above him and he’s pulling, tugging away at the veins in his arms until they’re wrapped around his fingers like twine.

His arm is a rainbow of colors: red and blue and white as his skin pales beneath the gore, clammy and ashen. Jack’s pulling his insanity out by the roots, ripping his veins out in one long cord of shame and desperation, and he can’t stop. He watches in morbid fascination as he splits his forearm in two, and then his palm, unearthing the web of capillaries beneath his skin as though they’re worms spanning the length of his arm, making a home atop his bones.

His veins end at his fingertips and Jack blacks out in the tub, unable to face the red pooling in the shallow water and the screams of joy inside his head.

_Make yourself like me._

**_DAY 7_ **

_Click._

“Hey guys, this is Jack.

I’m sorry if I haven’t seemed like myself in the past few episodes. I’ve been getting sick and having trouble sleeping in the past few days, and it’s not really anything you guys need to worry about, but I thought I’d give you all an honest update so you’re not left with any unanswered questions.

I’m not stopping videos if I can help it, and if I come to the decision that my channel needs a brief hiatus then I’ll let you know before disappearing on you completely. I just need a little time to sort myself out and get my sleeping schedule on track so that I can keep making content for you guys the way I was before.

Thanks for all the concerned comments on Youtube and Twitter and Tumblr, but I promise you I’ll be back to full health and energy in no time, so if you’ll bear with me then I’ll be able to kick this thing in the ass and come out the other side swinging!

I love you guys to death, and I wouldn’t trade this job for the world. Thanks for listening and for all your support!”

.

.

.

_Twitch._

 “ ** _See you soon, kids. Stay tuned for more lies!_** ”

END.

_Replay?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (In case you're confused, no that was not Jack speaking at the very end--it was someone else.)  
> I hope you all enjoy and I'm sorry for how confusing and disjointed (or laughably unscary) this was. if you're confused at all don't hesitate to ask in the comments, lol. I don't bite. Much love. <33


	5. my head is an animal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark experiences thoughts he's not used to having.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'm so, so, so sorry this is so late. 
> 
> Quin and I have been crazy busy with work/life/school and it's been hard to meet up and go over the chapters together. We wanted to be able to keep a consistent update schedule but unfortunately life takes precedence over this collaborative effort (despite how much we love it). I'm almost done with school for the summer so I'll have copious amounts of free time in the coming months, so things should be on a consistent update from there, but please bear with us until time decides to work in our favor. 
> 
> That said, please enjoy this chapter! If life permits, Quin will have hers up later today or tomorrow. 
> 
> Title of this chapter is from "Dirty Paws" by Of Monsters and Men.

He hasn’t felt like himself the last few days.

Mark looks at his computer screen blankly, trying to muster up the courage to upload a video, or even record one, at that. But the familiar thrill and excitement that usually comes with recording doesn’t come to him. In all honesty, he feels blank. Empty.

Confused.

Shaking his head, he loads up Twitter onto his computer, his page filling in with colors and tweets and notifications, and he sighs. Creating a new tweet, he writes, _Some stuff has been happening. I won’t be posting for a while._

It isn’t the first time he’s gone on hiatus. It won’t be the last. But right now, he can’t keep pretending he’s alright when he’s really, really _not_.

But before he posts it, he can’t bring himself to do it. It’s just a bad few weeks. It’s nothing he can’t power through. Some days he’s fine. Some days, he may not feel the desire to record, but other days he does, and in those days he has to stockpile. 

His memories are blurring. Sometimes he wakes up in places that he doesn’t remember falling asleep in--sometimes he reads messages he’d texted to other people that he doesn’t remember writing. Everything is slowly falling apart in his brain. He doesn’t understand one, single, goddamn thing anymore.

His dream about the mangled corpse hadn’t been the last one. It had been the first in a series of dreams that still follow him. One after another, every time he sleeps his hands do some unspeakable deed, against his will, against his moral judgment. It’s a pendulum, back and forth, back and forth, remembering and not remembering, being Mark and...someone else entirely.

It’s weird, to think that. To think that he’s someone else. But that’s the only thing it could be. Mark can’t help but think there’s someone else inside of him, using his skin, pretending to be him when all he can do is watch. Like a puppet on strings. Like a doll bending to the will of its master.

Mark knows he should talk to someone about this. But who can he tell without seeming crazy? Everyone will think he’s got paranoia, anxiety, some sort of chemical deficiency, and he doesn’t--there’s someone there. There’s someone who knows. There’s someone too close to him that knows what crimes he’s committed in his head. 

What kind of fucked up person tears out someone’s eyes?

One of his more recent dreams had been worse than that. Using blunt nails, he’d tore apart someone’s throat, as if he were a fucking animal, with no concern, care, or caution about killing. The static in his dream had driven him crazy. It had been like a mosquito’s wings--too close to the ears, whining in such a way that if even the slightest bit of static rung near him, he jumped. 

The one following that, he’d torn off someone’s ears. The screams that followed still hadn’t left him, fully. 

He hardly sleeps through the night anymore. Mark finds that if he goes to bed early, he wakes up early. 3 AM, to be exact. He finds that if he goes to bed late, he wakes up at 3 AM. It’s a rhythm, a beat in time to a drum that he doesn’t understand the purpose of dancing to. He’s always awake at 3 AM, as if there’s some sort of external force yanking him awake every morning, and every morning he stares at the ceiling, unable to fall back asleep until well after 8 AM. 

Normally, that sort of sleep pattern would heighten his productivity. Waking early, sleeping very little--it gives him a lot of time to edit, record, and drink a lot of coffee. But his movements have been sluggish, unaccomodating, and unpleasant, giving him reason to believe that he’s getting sick again.

Only, he doesn’t feel sick.

~~

“Oh, that’s great, I love it when that happens,” Mark muses into the camera, sarcastically remarking about how his character dies again. “This is my favorite thing. I literally couldn’t ask for a better protagonist.”

This is the fourth time he’s failed to complete the fight. His frustration continues, and progressively he doesn’t know what to do. He thinks that maybe it’s the fatigue of sleeping too much that’s inhibiting his ability to play properly, but maybe he’s always sucked this bad.

_Were you ever good before?_

Mark throws the controller across the room. Trembling slightly, he runs his fingers through his hair, “floofing” it up, pretending as though he’s less mad than he actually is. Grinding his teeth, he manages to laugh out something akin to his normal one, hopefully playing it off. 

Reigning his emotions back in, he walks across the room to pick up his controller, looking it over for any scratches or cracks. When he finds none, he feels marginally relieved, before sitting back down at the desk. He adjusts his headphones on his ears once again, saying, “Yeah. Sorry about that. Let’s get back to kicking this guy’s ass.”

But he doesn’t. As he continues, Mark gets more and more agitated with his own lack of ability to play the game properly. He’s been silent for a long time on camera, every so often murmuring _fuck_ or _shit_. He’ll probably have to cut this part out. His prolonged silence isn’t at all entertaining.

_Are you ever entertaining?_

Mark chews on his lower lip, wincing when he cuts too deeply into the skin. The taste of blood tips the edge of his tongue, and with some sort of beast growing in his chest, he tosses the control down. 

“I think that’s all I have time for, today,” he grits out, trying to maintain the facade of happy-go-lucky Mark. 

The beast growls. He shuts off the camera, and lets out a long sigh, contemplating recording another video, wondering if distraction will subdue whatever is aggravating him. One that’s perhaps calmer than the one he just participated in. 

~~

It doesn’t work. 

In a fit of rage, he hurls his remote across the room and it actually breaks this time. 

_Look at what you’ve done._

The beast groans in a mixture of pleasure and dissatisfaction. A paradox of emotions that doesn’t make sense. 

Mark shuts off the video, deciding he really can’t be bothered to record anything else today. 

_That’s right. Just give up._

~~

“Chica! Chica-Bica! Come here girl, come on!” 

Mark lets out a sigh of irritation when, for the third time, Chica refuses to come to him when he calls. Normally, she comes running, but every time she takes one look at him, she ducks away and he frankly doesn’t have the energy to chase her. 

It’s probably her puppy-rebellion of some sort. Isn’t that what happens to all children? Even though he’s not technically her dad, and she’s not technically a human, it would still make sense. 

He steps outside, sliding back the glass door, taking in the breeze. Mark gazes upon the pool, but doesn’t get into it, rather sits on the side and stares up at the sun. It burns into him, and he can almost _hear_ the heat it radiates, forcing anything too weak to withstand it crumble into dust. 

Pausing, he backtracks that thought, only to realize that there’s really nothing wrong with it.

_It’s true. The weak willed crumble._

That’s how it always is in movies, anyway. 

Mark hears the whir of insects around him, thriving in the warmth of the soon-to-be summer weather. Around his head zips a couple of dragonflies and bees, obviously feeling safe enough to get that close enough to him.

Or stupid enough. 

Who knows? 

Recalling a faint memory, Mark holds out a finger, wondering if the old thing will still work. When they were young, him and Tom had always gone out to the woods, and one of the tricks they had learned was if you held your finger still enough, dragonflies would land on it. 

It takes a bit, but the venture is successful. Gracefully, a dragonfly perches itself on Mark’s finger, its wings flickering briefly in the sunlight. They’re so thin, see-through, and frail. As gently as he can, Mark grabs the body of the dragonfly so it can’t get away. 

He takes a closer look at the wings. They’re like paper. It’s amazing that they don’t get snapped off. It’s amazing that they’re still in tact after all the flying, all the zipping and lollygagging that insects do. 

Mark touches one. The insect wiggles in his fingers, obviously frightened by his sudden touch on its only chance at escape. 

_It knows._

Almost in a trance, Mark grips the wing, and in a swift movement, tears it off. The dragonfly squirms, writhing in a way that unsettles him. 

It must hurt. To have something torn away from it. To have something removed that it doesn’t want to be removed. 

He grips another wing. With a slower tug, Mark tears it off, too. The dragonfly continues to squirm in a sense of agony in his fingers. 

His hands are warm. His fingers are strangely cold. As he stares at the insect, demanding release, he holds it tighter. 

_Rip it apart. Tear it to pieces._

Mark does. He rips the next wing off in a similar fashion, and then the next, wondering what in the world has gotten into him. 

The dragonfly looks so limp now, perhaps in a state of shock. It’s useless, now, he thinks. It can’t fly. It can’t do anything. He might as well put it out of its misery. It can’t do anything. 

Leaning over, he drops it into the pool, watching it twist and writhe until it finally comes to a halt.

_Just another death on your hands._

~~

When Mark wakes up, he’s not awake. He distinctly knows it’s a dream. 

Except, he’s sitting in his room, but it’s _not_ his room, and there’s not much else he can do to explain that other than it’s not his room. It looks like his, but it belongs to another person that most definitely isn’t him, and he doesn’t know how that is because he knows where everything’s at. 

The clock rings in Mark’s ears. He hears it ticking loudly, booming in a cacophony of sound that drowns out his own heartbeat, his own breathing, and any other sound in the room. It dampens any chance of him hearing someone come in.

He blinks. In that second, a figure appears before him, walking towards him with a clacking sound that seems unlikely for a carpet floor. But everything about the figure seems unlikely. Just the entire feeling of him is unlikely. 

In a way, Mark wants to rise to meet them. Yet, he’s pinned to his spot, held down by an unseeable force, the very act of moving causing discomfort. Like pins in his skin. 

The figure’s face finally comes into focus. It takes a moment for him to realize that the face is almost like his own, yet not, at the same time. The hair is messier, unkempt and tangled, cheeks are sharper with a twist of malice in the lips. The eyes are darker, more sunken in, as though something is about to happen. 

Mark stares back into the lifeless eyes, a semblance of fear rushing into him. It’s a dream, yes, but it doesn’t make him any less afraid of the figure before him. The figure that wears his own skin in a way that is stronger, darker, and more devilish than himself. He holds his skin with a greater sense of who he is and what he wants. 

“Don’t worry,” the figure tells him, mocking and soothing all at once. It’s like a potent narcotic, shooting into his bloodstream and taking root, wrapping around him in a way that chills him to the core. “I’ll make sure you serve your purpose.”

He is the beast, Mark thinks.The growling, groaning, grumbling thing inside of him, insatiable in hunger and demanding of his actions. It is part of him, it’s why he wears his skin. He is the beast he so desperately tries to keep quiet. 

The beast’s words don’t put him at ease. He opens his mouth to speak, but finds that the words won’t come out. The sweetness of it mask something darker, an intention unknown to him, and his fear grows--something gnarled and ugly that fills him almost to the brim.

Mark blinks again. When he opens his eyes, he stares at the bathroom ceiling and wonders how on earth he got in there.

~~

In the mirror, he sees his reflection. He looks as he always does with the same red hair and the same brown eyes and the same old t-shirt he’s had on for three days. 

His reflection smiles at him again, more bent and triumphant than the last. But this time, Mark knows he isn’t smiling, and he knows that the mirror isn’t reflecting him.

It’s the beast. The beast’s smile widens at his realization yet Mark doesn’t smile back. He can’t smile back. The person in the mirror can’t be him. 

_You’re a monster. Just like me._

~~

At 3:43 AM, Mark watches some of Jack’s more recent videos. It’s been a while since he’s actually heard Jack’s voice, and the Irish lull always puts him at ease. 

In the past, before the fatigue and the dreams and the odd tendencies, Mark would always play Jack’s videos in the background while he worked, editing with the Irishman’s voice playing over the speakers of his phone. It’s not the best voice he’s ever heard, but it’s warm and inviting and comforting, and everything Mark needs at any given time. Like an old friend. Like the promise of something more.

This is one of those times. 

For once, he isn’t working while he listens. Instead, with headphones on and the lights out, he focuses on the green-haired man in the corner of the screen, his lips forming perfectly accentuated words like a melody. But something about Jack seems off. 

He looks so _fucking_ tired. Though he’s trying to use the endless reserves of energy Mark knows he has within him, he can’t hide it all that well. He doesn’t pause the video, though, as he continues to talk, his voice cracking in some places, places that it shouldn’t be cracking. Mark wonders what’s wrong with him.

A twist makes itself known in his gut. It’s like someone grabbed his intestines and is now yanking and tugging and making him bleed. Normally, he doesn’t have this strong of a reaction, but in his state of exhaustion, he supposes he misses Jack more than a lot of people. 

The Green Beacon, so his Tumblr proclaims, and Mark’s always felt like he'd been just that. Always there, always comforting, always able to make him laugh or smile. He hasn’t made an effort to contact Jack at all these last few weeks, save for answering his text that one night before _it_ came inside. 

When he had looked at his phone later, a series of text messages he hadn’t remembered sending appeared in his phone, and in a fit of paranoia, promptly deleted all of said conversations. He hasn’t spoken to Jack since.

He knows he hadn’t said those things. Jack isn’t dying. And he feels worse than he ever has. There isn’t anything good about how he feels. 

Jack’s outro music suddenly blares in his ears, and Mark goes to click the next video in the playlist when he hears a slight fizzle in the audio. It’s unlike Jack to leave any sort of static pop, because he prides himself in his editing abilities, so it must be intentional. Jack stares at the camera, seemingly silent, and Mark watches the blue of his eyes flicker, almost unrecognizable. He grins sharply, and the smile makes him uneasy, as though he’s looking at _him_ , instead of at the camera. 

**“See you soon, kids. Stay tuned for more lies!”**

The camera ends, and Mark sits back, confused by that. The video had nothing to with lying or children of any sort, and usually Jack’s little extras pertain to the video. Mark checks the date on the video, and it’s from a few days ago, so he clicks the next one to see if it’s there, too. 

He skips to the end. Sure enough, another little clip plays, Jack’s form twitching slightly.

**“I could get used to this. But you don’t know a damn thing about that, do you?”**

The sentence is punctuated with a snort. His eyes pierce the camera, and again, Mark feels as though Jack is staring directly at him. Involuntarily, his heartbeat picks up, and when the video cuts, he rewinds the clip to see it again. The smile is sharper, this time, barbed and acute, intending to blame, intending to hurt. It means something. He plays it again. 

And again. And again. 

He clicks the next video. He skips to the end. Jack is there again, the same form, calmer and somehow, more sure of himself. Less antsy. More still. 

**“Death is coming, and he’s locked within. He’s a goner as long as I’m in his skin.”**

The feral smile returns for a brief second before the video opts for a replay, and Mark finds himself shaking. Immediately, he wants to text Jack, to ask him what’s going on, to ask if he’s okay, because that’s just _so_ unlike him. But he doesn’t. Instead, he rewinds the clip, plays it again, and again, and again. 

_Death is coming, you’ll never be alone. I am the one in control of your bones._

Mark fumbles for a breath. His own thoughts are killing him. In a fit of rage, he knocks his cup of water off his desk, hyper-aware of the splashing it makes on his carpet. Without moving from his chair, he stares at the puddle, and turns off the monitor of his computer. 

He doesn’t fall back asleep. He blacks out, more like, and when he falls into oblivion, he dreams of stormy blue eyes and a smile so sharp he would burn the world down to see it again. 


	6. ladies and gentlemen, i introduce the selfish machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack isn't possessed. He's just sick. Really. He is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry our posting schedule is so off, but we're hoping to get back on track asap (meaning that with luck there should be a chapter from GG on Tuesday, fingers crossed). This chapter is a bit shorter than I'd originally hoped, but we introduce a new friend who you may or may not recognize.
> 
> Once again, this chapter carries a warning for blood/gore/self-mutilation/hallucinations etc, but that's gonna be a pretty consistent thing for the next few chapters, so keep that in mind.
> 
> Title is from The Sky Under the Sea by Pierce the Veil. I highly recommend listening while reading, because the song is fucking awesome.

**Mark:** _I’m sorry. That wasn’t me._

Jack stops chewing his cornflakes, the sound of crunching grating against his frayed nerves, and glances at the glow of his phone.

He considers it from a distance, unwilling to touch it and warp the text on screen into something unlike reality. He’s come to terms with the fact that whatever he touches he stains with the strange sort of madness that seeps its way into his every waking hour, the way it has since, well—time is a fictional concept anyways.

He’s curled up on the tile floor of his bathroom, back pressed against the peeling paint of the wall like he’s a one man fortress armed only with a spoon and a bowl of dry cereal. He feels safest in corners and small rooms, the high ceilings of his bedroom and living room too vast and unguarded to afford him any peace of mind.

The cereal is gritty like sand between his teeth, and he prays that this time they won’t fall out while he’s chewing. Last night he’d tried to eat crisps like normal, and ended up with a mouthful of his own molars, rattling around and chipping at his still solid canines until he’d spat them out onto the floor in a pink drizzle.

He’d stopped tasting blood and empty space in his mouth sometime around 4 AM this morning, and maybe it’s ludicrous to eat food so soon after choking on his own loose teeth, but Jack is starting to make friends with his insanity.

That said, he can’t forgo eating for too long as it is, because even though sleep appears to be entirely impossible these days, food is still a necessary evil.

Jack hasn’t talked to anyone at all—in person or online—since his last conversation with Mark, and it’s evident now that even that experience was apparently based entirely on lies. He’s not sure whether or not to trust the text in front of him, because his brain has a tendency to turn words upside down until they read opposite of their meaning, and Jack isn’t sure about Mark’s honest intentions anymore.

**Jack:** _It was **someone**._

**Mark:** _That ‘someone’ wasn’t me. None of it was me. I’d never say any of those things to you, Jack._

It seems absolutely unfeasible that Mark could be crazy too, but maybe he is? Jack spies a leach burrowing under the skin of his left arm and picks at it idly, wondering why his brain can’t come up with anything worse anymore. A hundred thousand roaches crawling up the bathroom tile would be much more terrifying.

**Jack:** _You never say anything to me anymore._

**Jack:** _Sorry, that was dramatic._

He leans up against the wall in his bathroom and sets the cereal bowl aside, staring up at the sheet draped over the mirror, and wonders if today’s the day he’ll look into it again.

He’s gotten good at handling the rotting food and the sounds that aren’t there, the bloody fingers and that one time he’d stuck an entire hand through his own abdomen and pulled out bits of his insides, but Jack cannot look at his face anymore.

He wants to, don’t get him wrong, he wants to so badly he can taste it, but he knows he shouldn’t.

His world is a circus, a three ring horror show trapped in an eternal loop, and Jack’s the main attraction amongst a sea of lions and tigers and bears without eyes.

Mirrors are the pinnacle of truth in horror, the open books and the damning evidence to what’s real and what’s not. When all else deceives, the mirror paints what the real world cannot, and the last time Jack looked into the mirror, he couldn’t see himself.

The corrupted face in the glass was no longer his own, and the eyes that stared back at him had never faltered under his gaze. Not once.

He wants so badly to look again, to know the truth about himself and whatever’s in his mind, but Jack cannot bear to believe the reality that he might not be himself anymore.

**Mark:** _I haven’t talked to anyone. It’s not just you, Jack._

**Jack:** _Are you okay?_

He thinks it might be comforting not to be alone in this, which is just polite talk for desperately hoping that Mark’s gone crazy too, and those thoughts are only Jack’s to answer for.

**Mark:** _I keep killing people in my sleep._

**Jack:** _Real people?_

Jack hasn’t killed anyone yet, unless you count that one girl in that one game, but that feels like a lifetime ago, and she deserved it anyways.

The ceiling lights swim and separate in his watery gaze, and Jack realizes with sudden surprise that he’s bored again. He hasn’t been bored in forever, and the feeling is strange in his limbs and head. His hands itch on the shag rug, but it’s not his skin peeling off this time, just the desire to move and speak and do _something_.

**Mark:** _I don’t know if anything’s real anymore._

He sits up, spine straightening from its slouch and Jack holds himself up on the bathroom countertop with an energy that’s not his own. His head is blissfully silent of static and whispers and there’s nothing growing in his mind that wasn’t there before, coming to life in vivid Technicolor before his eyes, and it’s _boring_.

He wants to _see_ , and damn all anxieties to the contrary.

His phone buzzes back down by his place on the floor, but Jack doesn’t pay it any mind. He hasn’t felt this focused in ages, burning holes into the worn fabric over the mirror that’s standing in between him and something new, something different. It’s a truth he knows down to his bones, the idea that there’s something waiting for him behind it, and Jack’s hand moves of its own accord.

His fingers grip the sheet and pull, and the fabric gives way to bright lights and clear, smooth glass. Something screams for joy inside of his head, pure happiness like he hasn’t felt in years, the sound splitting the silence taking up space in his mind.

Jack’s eyes meet two more across the way, a foot of space in between his face and the flat surface of the mirror, and he blinks.

His reflection doesn’t blink back.

-.-

He is not human, but this body is.

He flexes his fingers for the first time, devotedly training his gaze away from McLoughlin’s mirror. His grip is weak, and his legs tremble on the cold tile floor, unused to feeling temperature against his skin firsthand.

He’s unused to feeling anything but trapped, unused to having skin at all.

He feels like a newborn deer, standing on spindly legs in an unfamiliar world he’s only just been introduced to through blurred colors and distant sounds.

He is too weak to sustain himself, or maybe it’s this body, maybe it’s both. He needs time, energy, focus.

He needs full control.

He moves backwards and away from the mirror, unwilling to relinquish command despite how it saps away at his strength just to maintain consciousness this way. The room feels lopsided and his shoulders tremor minutely beneath the cloth of McLoughlin’s shirt, muscles supporting the soul of something too big for their human shape.

This is the first time he’s walked on his own, but it won’t be the last.

The phone on the floor vibrates by his bare foot, startling him into knocking back into the wood frame of the bathroom doorway, and the pain shakes his control. He growls, white hot and coarse in the soft throat of his human counterpart, and chokes on the sound.

His borrowed skin feels tight around the burgeoning energy he’s burning through just to move, and his mind cramps like a hand packed into a too-small glove, straining relentlessly against its confines.

He recognizes the godforsaken thing on the ground, the same device that’s caused his host so much grief over the past week, strangely devoid of social contact save for one exchange with a man overseas.

The man is like him, he knows. The first conversation he’d seen between the two of them was proof enough of that, and as he struggles to control the shaking of his fingers on the bright screen, he can recognize the flow of the harsh words before him.

McLoughlin hadn’t spoken to his almost-lover those few days ago, and no matter how clearly besotted his host’s brain was with the man called ‘Mark’, he hadn’t seemed to catch onto that little detail.

‘Mark’ however, seems to possess a lot more in the way of intelligence, or at least self awareness. His own mind snags tenaciously onto that tiny element and doesn’t let go, turning it over amidst tumultuous thoughts.

He wonders what that means for the man’s own demons—clearly Mark’s mind is also being ridden by someone or something, and he curses that fate would have it that he cannot speak to the thing that’s growing there.

**Mark:** _There’s something in my head._

He smiles, all sharp teeth and long tongue, and the feeling is so foreign that he touches his mouth, eyes slightly wide. McLoughlin rarely smiles, or at least he doesn’t now that things are different inside his mind, and it’s the first time that he—the _Other_ —has ever smiled on his own without forceful necessity.

He wants more. He can do more. He can have more.

**Jack:** _I’d like to talk to them._

He wishes it were that simple to call forth someone he’s never met, never seen in person. His time in control is limited, and he doesn’t want to waste it staring at a glowing rectangle when he has the potential for so much more.

McLoughlin is a tough son of a bitch, at least for now, and he’ll take his body back within minutes whether he realizes what he’s doing or not. He has to use his time wisely, or risk waiting days to commandeer these limbs again. The process is slow going, pursuing a suitable body of his own, and even this one will only last him for some time.

He is not human, and he cannot live in one for long. Something has to change.

But first, baby steps. He has to learn to breathe on his own in this human husk, and he needs a name of his own design.

His life has been short so far, but McLoughlin’s will be shorter.

-.-

Jack opens his eyes and his arms feel heavier than usual, the muscles tense and overworked, like he’s run a marathon in a dream he doesn’t remember having. Everything is stiff.

He’s lying in his bed but the feeling is all wrong, because he doesn’t sleep anymore and this isn’t where he was just seconds ago.

The last thing he remembers is taking the sheet off the mirror and staring at the creature in front of him, the one whose expression hadn’t matched his at all.

His mind is attacking itself, and his demons have faces that take after his.

Whatever Jack is battling, it looks like the thing in the mirror that’s stealing his features and rewiring them until his eyes are flashing green and black and blue and bloody, a neon sign warning for danger bubbling on the horizon. The thing bleeds, mostly from its left green eye and the teeth crowding its mouth, razor sharp against his bottom lip. The image is impossible to imagine without the proof burned into his retinas, but Jack can’t scrub the colors away.

Mirror Jack is not Sean McLoughlin, but he’s there all the same and he doesn’t smile when Jack does, so they don’t want the same things.

His room is still fully intact, and Jack’s glad to see that even though he can apparently still black out, it doesn’t automatically go hand in hand with senseless destruction he has no culprit for.

He curls one hand into a fist and the thought dies like a dog in his mind, half formed and hardly appreciated before he feels the stinging in his wrists.

He’s prepared for the blood pooling beneath his arms but not the stickiness of his fingers or the way the red travels in streaks up his arms like war paint—bulletproof evidence that his mind is no longer his own.

All of his former blood-born hallucinations have been messy but elegant, a product of an entity that appreciates suffering, but only as an art form. Today, his arms are a torn mess of skin and shallow cuts oozing blood, a five year old’s fingerpainted massacre of a human canvas, and that’s how Jack knows the wounds are real.

He sits up in bed, arms sticking to the fabric of his sheets and the cuts are superficial, but they burn as they’re ripped wider by the tension between bloody skin and mattress. His first instinct is to touch his face and neck, fingers searching for more leaking, scabbing wounds, but there are none that he can feel.

His ears catch the sound of the shower running, and he’s torn between leaving his room to investigate the noise and lying back down to wait for his arms to drain him dry and finish the job he should have started days and days ago.

It would take a long time for shallow slices and a dizzy mind to kill him, so Jack stumbles from the bed and moves towards the sound, resigned to the probability of finding tub full of blood or a pair of eyes in the sink.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Fuck,” he swears under the entryway, and his mouth is so dry he’s not sure the word finishes on his tongue. The shower _is_ running, the curtain pulled back to reveal nothing but steam and an empty stream of water, but that’s not what’s stopping him in his tracks.

His bathroom is exactly as he’d left it, bathmats in place, soap in the proper containers, sheet crumpled in the corner by the light socket, but there’s one thing added to the otherwise bland scenery before him.

The same blood that’s dripping steadily from his fingertips is smeared along the marred glass of his bathroom mirror, long strokes of color beneath the glare of the overhead lights, and acid rises in his throat.

His wrists ache, the cuts thrumming as though he’s remembering slicing himself open with his own hands, and a word he doesn’t recall bleeding out onto the mirror rings familiar and shrill all at once.

**ANTI**

-.-

The voicemail appears the next day, one missed call on his lockscreen that he hadn’t heard over the sound of the radio blaring loud enough to drown out the scuffling in his head. Something is rattling around, testing the limits and scratching at the walls of his mind, and it wants out.

Jack refuses to call it ‘Anti’, the joke of an alter ego his fans had come up with after one too many questions about his fictional darker self in past vlogs. It’s no matter that some part of his tainted psyche has decided to nickname itself as such, and Jack wages war on behalf of his better judgment, railing against the idea that whatever is growing inside him has a mind of its own.

This is real life, and real life doesn’t mean what it did a week and a half ago, but it also doesn’t mean that Jack grew an evil twin in the time it usually takes him to grow half a beard. This is mental illness, stress, bad Chinese food— _something_ the doctors have seen before, and he’s going to kick it in the ass, cheesy blood spatters and all.

The thumbs over the missed call, hesitating to turn down the noise from the music because the call is from Mark and he doesn’t trust the words on his phone under Mark’s name anymore than he trusts himself.

Swallowing the anxiety trying to crawl its way up his throat like an animal, Jack cuts off the mindless noise and opens the voicemail, listening to the way the audio crackles with static immediately.

“You said you wanted to talk to me,” Mark’s voice sounds different through the phone connection, but not in the way it normally does. Talking to him over a call is like listening to his voice from underwater. It’s far away and flat, and there’s a facet of it that’s missing, whatever it is that makes millions of people want to listen to him speak for hours and hours on end.

The voice that greets him isn’t the voice of the man that he fell in love with some time ago; it’s something a shade darker, like he’s speaking through a distortion device. There’s no animation, no soft growl or rich warmth behind his words and it makes Jack’s skin crawl angrily. His mind is sick, and it’s twisted Mark’s voice into a bastardization of something that it once was, just another stolen joy from Jack’s meager bag of personal delights.

“I wish I could have heard your voice in person,” Mark continues, strangely intimate and soft and so, _so_ wrong. “I’ve heard it in his videos, you know, from the back of this one’s mind? I knew who you were right away—no questions asked.”

He’s silent for a moment, and Jack thinks the call may have cut out before Mark—if it’s really Mark—could finish speaking, but then the voice picks up again.

“I wish you weren’t so far away—humans never take advantage of what’s right in front of them, but we can, if we want.”

He laughs, and Jack has to stifle the urge to cringe away from the phone. That’s not Mark’s laugh, not at all, and to hear it take shape beneath his voice like it belongs there—Jack can hardly bear it.

“I’m getting stronger than he is, even if he doesn’t realize it. It won’t be long before he’s locked away completely, and then I won’t have to wait to see you. I don’t feel like being alone—life’s no fun when you’re breaking faces by yourself.”

‘Mark’ takes a breath, heavy and laden with something Jack can’t identify, but it sounds like want.

“I don’t even know your name or if you know for sure that I exist, but if you’re wondering about anything—I’m here. I’d burn the world to hear my name on your lips.”

There’s static, real life phone static, and then the message ends with an innocuous beep. Jack isn’t fooled, not one bit. He knows that Mark’s in trouble now, maybe in the same way that he is, but what that means for them Jack doesn’t know.

He tosses the phone aside like not-Mark’s voice had burned it up from the inside out, and buries his face in his hands.

Jack has no idea how they’ve both been infected with the same madness, but it must have a name and if it has a name then there’s medicine for it, he’s sure. He’s not the first man to hear things that aren’t there, and probably not even the first to own a brain that names its darker habits like they’re an separate entity entirely.

There are illnesses that make people do things they wouldn’t normally do, things they have no memory of doing, and Jack may never have struggled with his head in the past, but there’s a first time for everything.

He has to speak to Mark for real, no texts, no voicemails, no doubt that the person on the other line is the man he’s known and admired for years on end.

Jack can’t do this on his own anymore, and that’s the healthiest thought he’s had in so many hundreds  of hours that it scrapes awkwardly against the blankness of his mind like nails on a chalkboard.

He’s a human being, and he’s not going to let his brain devour itself whole without his express permission. He can call it by the name that’s been knocking around inside of him since he’d read the mirror last night ( _antiantiantianti_ ), or he can call it what it is and crush it by its head like a serpent creeping underfoot.

His fingertips ache suddenly at the revelation, like something deep set in his bones is rebelling against his determination, and Jack curls his hands into fists, resisting the urge to look at his body trying to falsely distort itself. It’s as though there’s an attention hungry toddler living inside of him, and when Jack refuses to nurse it, the creature rebels by lashing out at the home it’s made of his body.

His nails dig deeper into his palms and Jack squeezes his eyes shut, wishing it were his feet splitting apart instead of his hands twisting and cutting him off from grabbing the phone to call Mark back, to call for help. His body betrays him and the bones in his fingers lengthen until his fingernails are pricking at his skin, sharpening and growing like an array of knives from his flesh until they’ve carved their way into the soft meat of his hands.

Jack’s mouth is sealed firmly shut, but his bones clank together and the thing in his head howls wrathfully until he can feel it tearing at his throat, trying to escape.

He bites his tongue until he tastes blood.

-.-

**_The number you have called is not available now. Please leave a message after the beep._ **

“…You know who this is.

When I said I wanted to talk, I didn’t mean I wanted to exchange love poetry. I want information, and you’re the closest thing I have to a living, breathing source.

Call me back, and this time, bring your brain to the fucking party.

My name is Anti. I don’t care about yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and I hope this chapter made enough sense for people to get through it. It's difficult to write hallucinations in a way that sets them apart from other dramatic events that are actually occurring in the story.
> 
> Much love and please let us know what you think, even just by picking a favorite line! <3


	7. but with the beast inside, there's nowhere we can hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beast has a name, and he wants to see Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I got this out a day late! I've been terribly unable to work efficiently on this story while exams are going on at school, and bless Quin, she's been wonderfully patient with me until school lets out. We're very excited about the following chapters, because they get heavily into the concepts we've been working towards. So, I hope you guys are ready!
> 
> Thanks so much, and enjoy! Chapter title is from, you guessed it, "Demons" by Imagine Dragons.

_My name is Anti. I don’t care about yours._

What does that mean?

Mark sits on his bathroom floor, the cold tile under his feet his only reminder that he is a tangible, living human being. His phone lies beside him, and every so often he replays Jack’s most recent voicemail over and over again, trying to pick up something, trying to decipher its meaning, and _God_ , who is Anti?

And who is he talking to?

He thinks of the beast inside of him, groaning and cooing at the sound of Anti’s name every time he plays the voicemail again. Maybe that’s why he’s so enamored with it. The beast inside of him loves it. It grows quiet for a brief period after he hears his voice, as if soaking it in, milking the short, clipped phrases for all they’re worth. Jack is talking to the beast, but it’s not Jack. It’s so evident in his voice. It’s the same Irish tune, but it’s not the same lull; it doesn’t provide the same sort of comfort that it always has in the past. No, his voice is undoubtedly different. 

Something is wrong with Jack. He’s seen it in videos and heard it first hand, but Mark doesn’t know what it is, anymore than he knows why the beast is suddenly so prevalent inside of him. Does Jack have his own beast? Perfect Jack, could he possibly, could there ever be something wrong with him? 

_Beautiful. Beautiful. Talk to him. Him. Him._

He would give anything to be with Jack right now. To feel him. To wrap himself around him and feel safe, and to consume every part of him that could help him relax, feel at ease, sleep peacefully. He would give the entire world to just be a part of that peace, to grip him and never let him go, to be a complete person with him. To satisfy the beast. To make everything stop hurting. 

Mark breathes in. _Jack. Jack._

Jack’s all he can think about. 

Involuntarily, Mark reaches for his phone. He picks it up, with trembling fingers, and opens up his photos, swiping, searching for photos of them. It takes a while, mostly pictures of the dog, the old roommates, the shared office, until finally a selection of photos. 

Snippets of the two of them. Little clips from interactions from New York, and in LA. He focuses on the way the light hits him, the way Jack smiles, taking in every detail of the green in his hair. Against what he assumed, his shoulders tense, and he feels tighter, like he’s being wound up with a key, like he’s a toy and something is determined to see him struggle. Each photo of Jack makes him feel like he’s going to burst apart at the seams, a mess of springs and wires and sinew. 

He doesn’t feel quite human, looking at Jack this way. 

_Talk to him. Talk to him._

Mark throws his phone at the door. 

Tangling his fingers in his messy hair, he tries to ignore how the walls seem to be closing in on him. He twists, yanking at his scalp, trying to remind himself that he’s safe in his bathroom and that he won’t be crushed. The sharp pain snaps him back to reality, and he breathes out. 

The beast doesn’t like that. The beast doesn’t like to be ignored. It wants to talk to Jack. It _wants_ Jack. 

_Anti. Anti._

Slowly, Mark rises to his feet, turning on the faucet. He lets cold water rush out of the tap for a few moments before cupping his fingers into a bowl. With a swift movement, he splashes the water onto his face, involuntarily shivering at the feeling against his warm cheeks. 

He looks up at his reflection, taking in how tired he seems. These last few days, he looks as though he’s held together only by a thin layer of skin, capable of collapsing at any given moment. Some nights, he waits for his skin to break apart, allowing the beast to have full reign, but on nights like these, he tries to maintain what ounce of humanity still rests within him. 

Gazing into the mirror, he takes in the pop of his own eyes. There’s a shimmer in them, a more careful stare than Mark knows he has. The eyes smile at him. 

Mark locks eyes with the beast, and the beast’s lips open into an exuberant smile, as if its won.

~~

Rolling his shoulders, he tries to adjust in his skin once again. 

The tension loosens, if only a fraction, and he realizes how easy it is for humans to encounter pain. Their exteriors are soft for such a weak creature, and it amazes him in a way that they have managed to survive this long.

It amazes him that Fischbach has managed to survive this long. But he supposes that in some ways, he should be grateful that humans are more resilient than they seem. 

Flexing each finger individually, he takes a cautious step forward, just to feel it out. Every time he assumes control, it’s a careful push and pull between settling himself into the skin. Like new shoes--they have to be broken in to become comfortable. His balance is off, certainly, but it’s something that will become better with time, and is certainly better than the first. No matter how great he is, even he won’t be perfect until he’s had a great deal of practice. 

Becoming tangible, becoming _solid_ , is a strange experience and he still wants more of it, no matter how many times he’s had it, no matter how brief. But more than that, he wants to know what these human shells can _feel_. 

Anti. Anti.

The name rings like a mantra in his mind, over and over. With careful measure, he kneels down, swiping up the phone laying dormant on the tile. It’s awkward in his fingers, his unsure fingers, even though he’s watched Fischbach tap away at it on a few different occasions. 

Unlocking the device, he scrolls through the list of contacts, finding the name _Jack McLoughlin_ under the ‘M,’ before he selects it. He wonders if McLoughlin will answer when he calls, or if it will be _him_ , and he’s excited at the mere thought of hearing his voice in person, instead of from the back of Fischbach’s mind. 

He presses the little phone, listening to the ringing in his ears. He waits for it to pick up, but hears nothing, only the persistent ringing that eventually ends with the automated voice messaging system. 

**_The number you have called is not available now. Please leave a message after the beep._**

He smiles. “Hello, Anti. You said you wanted me to call you back, and here I am. Again I’ve been robbed of the opportunity to hear you personally, but I suppose we have all the time in the world for that when I see you.” 

Fischbach may realize something is wrong, if the strange feeling in his chest is anything to go by. But it’s not enough to stop him. It’s his indication that he is stronger, now. Less resistance. He’s done well of breaking down the fool’s mind. “It won’t be long, now, before I’ve got complete control over this shell. I hope you’re faring just the same. I’m not a patient man, but you’re worth my time. I’ll be sure to give you what you’re searching for.” 

He’s got very few indications about Anti’s real goals, but he’s got an idea, and he laughs a little, thinking of ways to make this gorgeously disturbing man into something that’s purely his. Licking his lips, he murmurs softly, “Anti. My name is Dark. And I hope, next time we speak, you’ll do the honor of saying it for me.” 

~~

Mark opens his eyes and he’s laying on the floor again. Carelessly strewn about as though he’s a murder victim and his killer had no qualm about leaving him in an obscure position. His bones ache in a way they always do whenever he blacks out, and Mark presumes that the beast has had his fill. 

For now. 

Tenderly, he picks himself up, offering the only kindness he can to himself in his state of mind. His knees dig into the tile as he hoists himself onto his feet, noting that his phone is strangely absent from the floor. He notices it sitting on the edge of the sink, and doesn’t remember putting it there.

He doesn’t remember a lot of things. This is minor.

Grabbing it, Mark stuffs the device into his pocket and pushes the door open, pausing for a brief moment to let his eyes adjust to the dark. He blinks slowly, clicking off the light as he exits, and with the balance of an infant, he sways as he approaches his room. 

Logically, he knows he needs to go and record. But he can’t find the energy. The beast is strangely silent in his mind, but he still feels the tug, the knowing that if he dares try to do anything good, ten other things will go wrong.

It’s not equilibrium. It’s never been equilibrium. The beast has never claimed to be fair, to him or to his viewers. 

When he finally gets to his room, Mark sees Chica, curled in her bed, as if waiting for him. One thing he manages to smile at this day, he walks over to her, kneeling down and reaching his hand out to pet her.

She looks up, and for the first time, she opens her mouth and barks.

Startled by this, Mark pulls his hand away, gazing upon her as she recoils from him, seemingly frightened. Mark doesn’t understand, as he passes a glance behind him, and then looks down at his clothes, wondering if the colors are freaking her out or if there’s something weird on him.

Nothing. He’s pretty clean, given his blackout, and nothing out of the ordinary is behind him. When he looks back at her, she stares at him as though afraid of what he may do, and it’s such a weird thing, Mark realizes. She’s never acted like towards him before.

“Hey, girl,” he says quietly. “It’s just me.”

Mark reaches for her again, but this time, he swears she _growls_ , somewhere deep in her throat. Without warning, she bolts out of the room, not even faltering as he calls out, “Chica! Chica!” 

He stares after her longingly, wishing that she would come back, because _God_ , he needs something comforting right now. Even Jack’s voice grates on his ears, eliciting something awful within him every time he hears it. Honestly, he wants nothing more right now than to curl up with his dog and find some semblance of peace, but it seems the beast will deny him even this comfort.

Anger boils just beneath his skin at the thought. Perhaps it’s the sleep that's been getting him, the sleep filled with dreams that don’t make sense, of a man who wears his skin like a prized possession, of killing people he cares for with his own hands. Everything has been convoluted in his mind, filled to the brim with uneasy tension, a push and a pull, testing his limits every time he dares to close his eyes. 

Nothing has been the same since playing the game, that eerie, wretched game. But it’s stupid to believe that it has anything to do with himself. 

He’s always been this way. Hasn’t he?

_Yes. You’ve always been a monster._

Mark’s always been a monster. He’s just never realized it. The beast has always been a part of him, in the corners of his vision, in the back of his mind, whispering to him, persuading him to do things, to use his hands for pain rather than for aid. He wonders why he’s never named the beast before.

He realizes it’s because the beast decides his own name.

It’s fitting in the dullness of his room.

_Dark._

~~

He listens to the ringing of the phone, prepared to put up his front as Fischbach, in case McLoughlin answers. He has no way of really knowing if Anti is in control, and for how long, but he can afford a little hope in this human body full of it.

Dark waits for no man. He does not abide by anyone’s clock but his own. But he waits for Anti with a vigor he hadn’t known he was capable of. 

The ringing is agonizing, a test of his patience, which he lacks in bulk. After what could very well be an eternity, the phone receiver clicks, and nothing is spoken for a good few seconds.

“Anti,” Dark murmurs, low into the receiver, the familiar frill of excitement coursing through him. The way the creature’s name rolls off his tongue satisfies him in a way he’s yet to understand. 

It’s fearfully quiet for a moment, and Dark wonders if he’s misinterpreted McLoughlin’s silence in his desperate desire to speak to him. 

“I thought I said,” Anti drawls coolly, his voice like ice against his ear. “Bring your fucking brain to the party.”

It’s everything he hoped it would be. It’s unbridled, perfectly soothing and rough all at once. It’s McLoughlin’s voice but _better_ , stronger, more confident in his own words. It’s so much better than hearing him from across a computer screen, from the back recesses of Fischbach’s mind, and he wants him to talk more, to absorb every bit of it, to take every part of it into himself, as though he can immortalize it somehow.

Is this what it means to love someone? 

“It’s all here,” he breathes, holding in other, less favorable phrases that he has a strong desire to say. Dark knows he has to play it cool, to consent to whatever it is that Anti wants of him, until he can get his hands on him. Until he can physically, solidly hold onto this beautiful disaster. “What can I do for you?” 

Anti lets out a sound that could be a scoff, but he can’t be sure. As though gracing him some sort of pertinent information, he says, “This world wasn’t meant for creatures like us. But I’m looking for a way to change that. To part ways with this fragile skin, if your addled brain can comprehend that.” 

Dark gets it. These bodies aren’t theirs, no matter how long they have slaved away to get control of them. Their toil, their strife, the constant battle, it doesn’t make these skins theirs, even if they wanted them.

“I’ll see what I can find,” Dark says, wondering what Anti’s plan could possibly be. This is no small task, no simple flick of the wrist. This is going to take a lot of digging, a lot of bloodshed, turmoil, and unfavorable deeds against the true owner of his body.

All things he’s good at, fortunately.

“Good,” Anti drawls, and it could be a note of praise, but Dark doesn’t think it’s likely. “It seems you brought at least _half_ a brain today.” 

“How long can you stay in control?” Dark asks him, because he wants to know, wondering when he’ll be able to hear him again. He hopes that his voice doesn’t come off as wanting as it sounds against his own ears. “How often?”

“I’ll call you,” Anti tells him dismissively, adding another layer of mystery around his already shrouded form. Dark thinks it’s beautiful, the way he’s so calculated, the way he’s carefully withholding information. He knows so little of Anti, how he ticks, and his vague words eat away at Dark’s patience. Though, it gives him even more of a reason to get to him, to strip away every layer until he’s exposed, open for Dark to admire. 

He wonders, briefly, if he should press, but before he gets the chance to, the phone clicks and Anti is gone again. 

~~

“...Jack. It’s Mark. I-I think...I think we need to talk.” 

His fingers burn in a way they haven’t before as he grips the phone in his hand, tangling his free hand in his hair. The reality around him distorts again, and tugging at his hair keeps it at bay, reminding him that he can at least finish this fucking phone call before he blacks out again. 

Chewing on his lip, Mark murmurs, “I’m...worried about you. A-and maybe I don’t have any reason to be, but I...I just, need you to give me a call back, okay? I need you to give me a call back, okay? If you can...just to set my nerves at ease.”

He lets out a shaky breath as he ends the voicemail, dropping his phone the moment he does so as if it’s on fire, and he doesn’t want to get burned, anymore than his fingers already are. He’s come to fear his phone, fears the voice messages left by a voice that’s Jack and not Jack all at once. Mark curls his knees to his chest, trying to breathe, trying not to black out again, hoping that the beast will grow tired of fighting with him. 

But the beast never seems to get tired. He takes every ounce of energy Mark has and still has reserves of it for himself. 

In a way, he’s scared to call him by his name, though he’s never forgotten it since he first heard it. He fears that by even thinking it, Mark will invite him in, giving him purpose, giving him reason to believe that Mark, for a second, wants him there. 

But the beast never stops repeating it to him, over and over and over again. He delights in Mark’s suffering, delights in the way that he squirms and fidgets and fears. 

_Dark._

Each time he hears it, the beast gets a little stronger, and Mark wonders how that could possibly be, because he’s already a prisoner. He always has been. 

Mark hopes Jack calls him back soon.


	8. murder the moment (my god, i'm the serpent)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of confessions are made, but at what cost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, sorry for this being a day late. GG is done with school and exams, and I'm working to straighten out my schedule, but I still work most weekends so I'm constantly busy. Excuses aside, this is a very exposition heavy chapter, because a lot of stuff happens and this story is about to take a huge turn. I've done my best to not make it incredibly confusing, but as always, if you have questions we'll be happy to answer them. Thank you for being so patient with the both of us, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title is from Bulls in The Bronx by Pierce the Veil.

Jack stares at the phone in his hand, at Mark’s name on the top of the screen, and considers.

He’s been sitting here, stone still and silent for almost a half hour, and he’s no closer to deciding whether or not to make the call.

He’s heard Mark’s voicemail—and it’s _actually_ Mark’s, for whatever’s that’s worth nowadays—countless times by now, turning it over and over in his head and listening closely until he knows every word by heart.

Jack’s listened to every ounce of static, every harsh breath, every note of anxiety in Mark’s voice until he was sure that the person on the other end of the phone was the man he loves and trusts, and now he’s almost sure that it is.

He still can’t make the call.

Jack isn’t okay—that much is obvious. Mark isn’t okay either, and whatever has been plaguing him these past few weeks is taking the same shape as the thing in Jack’s head, leaving no doubt in his mind that their demons are linked.

He would be wise to talk to Mark, he thinks, trailing his thumb over the warm metal of the phone and chewing on his bottom lip. The message was a godsend and a terror all at once, because Jack hadn’t known how to break the news to Mark that he needed help, but he also hadn’t expected Mark to break down via voicemail on Jack.

The phone is a brick in his hand and he’s never sweated this much over calling someone in his life, not even once.

His anxiety is pointless, really. Jack knows exactly what will happen when he taps the screen and the phone rings in his ear: Mark will pick up and he’ll be a wreck, distraught even, but he’ll be there and he’ll be alive and he’ll listen to Jack. He’s the only person in the world who will listen to Jack because no one else sees blood and guts and bugs where there are none, and no one else sees creatures in the mirror that paint their faces to look like his.

No one else except for Mark.

He ducks his head and breathes deeply, shuddering into the space between his torso and legs, and Jack squeezes his phone tightly enough to shift every bone in his hand painfully.

_If you don’t call him, I will._

Jack’s head snaps up so fast he thinks he can hear the bones in his neck crack like twigs, and his grip loosens on his phone until it drops to the floor with a muffled thud.

“Who’s there?” he can’t manage more than a chalky whisper, and the words feel dry in his throat.

His mind remains as silent as the room, but the anxiety that’s been poisoning his brain and blood for days on end flares up again with an angry vengeance. It smokes out all of Jack’s thoughts until his mind is a smog of fear and mistrust, his hands shaking as he reaches again for his phone on the floor.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate to press the call button, and every inch of him prays that the slow, acid drawl in his head doesn’t sound off again. He needs to hear a voice—a real voice for once—and not this impossible drivel that’s shoving its way into the forefront of his thoughts.

The phone rings once, twice, and a third time before there’s a click and a soft breath on the other end.

“Mark,” he says immediately, and the sound instant relief travels through the phone.

“Jack, thank fucking god it’s actually you,” Mark sounds as bad as Jack feels, like he hasn’t slept or smiled in weeks, and just by the tremor in his voice Jack can sense his exhaustion. “I left you a message, but I didn’t know if you were the one who was even listening.”

The way he says the last part sparks a question in Jack’s head, but it’s one he already knows the answer to.

“You left me a message a few days ago,” is the first thing his mouth says, desperate and fumbling. “Before the one from yesterday, I mean. And another one before that, even. Except it wasn’t you—whoever it was, they had your voice but they weren’t you, Mark. I would know. I know you, and that wasn’t you.”

Mark curses under his breath, but it’s low and whimpery, not at all the tactless objection he’s used to from his friend in stressful situations, and Jack is instantly uncertain that Mark is even surprised by his declaration.

“What did I— _he_ say?” Mark demands in the next breath, as though he came prepared to be told someone’s been stealing his voice via phone message. “What did he tell you, Jack?”

Jack closes his eyes and tries to recall, but the words are right there, waiting for him like they’ve washed up from the back of his subconscious to the shores of his immediate thoughts.

“He wasn’t speaking to me,” Jack knows for a fact this is true, because the second time he’d seen the voicemail icon flashing on his phone, the voice of not-Mark had called him _Anti_. “He was speaking to someone else, someone he called Anti, and—”

“Did he tell you what his name was?” Mark cuts in abruptly, as soon as Jack mentions Anti’s name, and Jack stutters.

“Yeah,” he admits, because the person on the other end of the message had freely mentioned a name just before hanging up, and the words had made no sense to Jack. “He told me his name was Dark, and before that, he said he didn’t want to be alone anymore.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Mark’s voice cracks audibly and Jack swallows hard. He hadn’t known how to explain what he’d heard to Mark, because no matter how he laid the facts before him, they all pointed in the same direction.

Mark hadn’t made those first two calls, Jack’s absolutely certain of that, and the person who’d stolen his voice and his phone ( _Dark_ , his brain supplies unhelpfully) hadn’t been speaking to Jack at all. He’d been speaking to the same nasty, rancid portion of Jack’s failing brain that urged him to do things that defied all logic, and stole chunks of time from him just to graffiti his bathroom mirror with the same name that littered his voicemails.

“He was so fucking sick, Mark.” Jack’s tongue feels too big for his mouth, but the words are there and they can’t be stopped. He has to tell someone, _anyone_ what he’s seen and heard these past few days, weeks even. “He talked about you—I know he was talking about you—like you were an object or a cage, and the things he said to—to this Anti person…he talked like he was lovesick or obsessed or something. It was awful, how he sounded.”

“Anti left me a message,” Mark croaks, and Jack’s blood freezes in his veins, his words dying on his tongue.

“It was short,” Mark continues when Jack doesn’t respond, and he feels like he’s listening from far away. “All he said was that he wanted to talk, and that he wanted information of some kind. He told me his name, and then he said he didn’t care about the rest.”

Mark’s voice cracks again on the last few words, and Jack has no idea what to say. He’d never left any messages for Mark, not a single one, but Mark’s got proof that says otherwise and the voices on the phones never lie.

“I don’t know what he wanted information about,” Mark sounds like he’s breathing hard, and Jack perks back to attention in concern, fear of the truth still tight in his throat. “I don’t even know who the hell he is, but I hear his name inside my head all the time and I think there’s something wrong with me Jack—I’m not okay anymore, I’m not good. Especially not for you.”

“What do you mean you hear his name inside your head?” Jack latches on to that single detail and grips it tautly. “Listen, I found that name painted on my bathroom mirror a few days ago, written in my own blood. I blacked out and—and someone cut my wrists and smeared that name into the mirror all while I was unconscious.”

“It was him,” Mark’s steadily losing control of his voice, and he sounds like he’s been chewing on broken glass. “I don’t know who the hell he is, but Dark is in love with him. Dark is fucking sick in the head— _I’m_ sick in the head, Jack—and I’m so in love with you but not like that, not like he loves that _thing_ —”

Mark stops talking because he starts choking, and then the phone audibly hits the floor.

Everything is silent for a moment, but Jack can’t hear it over how loudly the blood is screaming in his veins, pumping through his heart and drowning out everything but the sound of Mark saying ‘ _I’m so in love with you_ ’ over and over.

He waits, and the silence from Mark’s end of the call is disconcerting, drawn out and painful in the seconds Jack’s standing there, frozen still. He doesn’t know when he moved from the couch, but suddenly he’s upright and his bones are rigid and stiff beneath his skin. He can’t breathe.

There’s static, and the sound of scraping as someone picks the phone up from what Jack can only assume is the floor, and then the silence is broken.

“Anti?”

Jack wants to vomit.

It’s not Mark, it’s the voice from before, the one that filled up Jack’s phone with strange pleas and soft words meant for someone who wasn’t Jack, but who wears his face like an ill-fitting mask.

“Anti, I know you’re there, love. Pick up the phone, I have things to tell you. Don’t make me wait on you again.” It’s a flat, distorted shadow of the voice he was speaking to just moments ago, one that could be Mark but definitely isn’t, because Mark doesn’t speak with a devil’s edge to his words.

Jack lurches forward, but not of his own volition, and there’s a tugging in his chest like there’s something living inside, something that’s hearing those words on the phone and it wants _out_.

Dark—Jack hates that name, but it’s the name he was told and it’s the name he knows is right—waits for a response and Jack chokes on his own breath as he looks frantically around, trying to stop the pounding in his chest that’s definitely not the thump of his heartbeat anymore.

“I’m not Anti,” he manages to hiss, leaning up against the wall and pressing his forehead to the hard plaster, shoulders heaving.

Dark laughs, and Jack can almost hear his smile through the phone. He imagines that it’s yellow and rotten, the kind of grin that breeds roaches and sin in the best of humans, humans like Mark.

“You will be,” Dark tells him, and then he’s cooing again, sickly and sweet down the phone to Jack’s ears, but his words aren’t for Jack. “Come on, love. I know you can do it. I know you’re listening. Come talk to me again—I miss you, Anti. I fucking miss you.”

“You don’t even know me,” Jack’s teeth hurt and his eyes feel like they’re straining in his sockets, for what purpose he doesn’t know. The words aren’t his, angry and coarse in his throat as he stumbles forward, heading for the bathroom again. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Only for you,” Dark says, like the insults don’t faze him in the slightest, and Jack wants to scream as he bashes his knee against the bathroom doorway.

_‘I’m not Anti’_ , he’s protesting, but the words are in his head and not his mouth and Jack feels like he’s sinking in quicksand, the sounds of his hands on the marble countertop far away and false, and his fingers are going numb at the tips.

The face is there in the mirror again, but this time it’s worse, a horror movie caricature of Jack’s real features and he’s crying but the tears are red and dark and they’re only draining from one eye.

Jack feels himself being crumpled backwards into his head as the thing in the mirror grins widely at him, razor sharp fangs poking over the top of its lips and his left eye is burning, _burning_ with the blood brimming over his eyelid. Jack’s vision starts to cloud as darkness seeps in behind the runny sludge of his bad eye, and his last conscious thoughts sound like Mark’s final words to him.

“ _I’m so in love with you but not like that, not like he loves that **thing** —”_

-.-

Anti ducks away from the mirror immediately, but he can still hear McLoughlin howling in rage and confusion.

“I think the cat’s out of the bag,” he says, and the voice on the other side of the line fucking _purrs_.

“There you are,” Dark says, like the creepiest fucking version of any humanoid nightmare possible. Anti would throw up a little in his mouth if he weren’t so adverse to unnecessary dramatics. “I knew you’d come when I called.”

“I’m not your fucking pet,” Anti says, stretching out his knee where it’s bruising on the top. McLoughlin had lost control pretty quickly once Anti had really started pushing, and that’s comforting, but the human still has a greater sway over his own body than Anti does.

Dark is stronger than all of them, because he’s been festering for longer in Fischbach’s body, peeling away at his defenses until his host is a whimpering shell of a spineless man. It’s pretty pathetic, and Anti’s momentarily grateful that he hadn’t had to put up with Fischbach’s soggy whining for even a minute or two.

He needs more time to hollow out this body and take it for his own, but he still has to know how to make the most of having to wait around.

“I’ve got something for you,” Dark says, smoothly ignoring Anti’s crass rebuttal. “I did some research like you asked, and there’s a spell out there, but it’s fucking complicated as all balls. You’re not gonna be able to do it on your own.”

Fucking brilliant. He’d assumed as much, but Anti’s unashamed to admit he’d been hoping that he’d have no use for Dark past needing to request some minor digging. Anti doesn’t play well with others, especially not ones who’ll just as easily cough up some bullshit about ‘true love’ as they will any information relevant to his interests.

“Elaborate,” he orders, leaving the bathroom altogether and heading directly for McLoughlin’s recording room. He’s going to need the full power of a high end computer system to accomplish the searching he’s been itching to do for days.

“It’s in the game,” Dark hums, like those words mean anything at all to Anti, and he scoffs as he drops into McLoughlin’s plush leather desk chair.

“I said elaborate, not talk in riddles you ignorant fuck,” he boots up the system and waits patiently, fingers tapping out an idle rhythm on the keyboard. “If you’re going to try and fuck with my head I’m going to hang up and you can give up on ever hearing from me again.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Dark sounds maddeningly sure of himself, but Anti knows a trump card when he’s the one playing it. The demon on the phone is annoying and clingy as piss—it’d taken Anti about half a conversation to figure that out—but he’s useful to a fault and Anti’s going to milk that for all he’s worth.

“I can and I will,” McLoughlin’s lime green headphones lie on the desk, and he twirls the cord around one finger, huffing at the slowly loading screen. “I actually don’t need you right now, you know. Even if the spell requires more than one person I’ll just set it up myself without your help at all, don’t think I won’t. You won’t find me until after I’ve sent you the exact coordinates to my location, so start talking.”

Dark just snorts, sounding uncharacteristically dubious in the wake of Anti’s declaration, but Anti can feel the moment he concedes begrudgingly.

“The guidelines to the spell are hidden in the game’s coding—you know, the one that caused the mental split in the first place?” Dark’s probably pouting at him over the phone, and Anti sort of hates that he knows that just by listening, but he chalks it up to solid intuition and tries to focus.

“Seriously, that’s all it is?”

He rubs his face with one hand and scowls when his fingers come away sticky. His left eye is still stinging and there’s a trail of red tracking over the curve of McLoughlin’s cheekbone, residue from the degradation of his left optic nerve and the onset of an insidious infection.

He’s not one hundred percent clear on what his bad eye can do for him, but he’s got an inkling as to how useful it might be in the future, and makes a mental note to look into covering it up before going out in public. Humans aren’t known for their ability to look away from something as uncanny as a rotting eyeball, and he’d rather not become the latest horror thread phenomenon on Reddit.

Dark’s still talking, and Anti has to tune back in to catch what he’s saying without giving notice that he’s been zoning out.

“I think you have to crack open the game’s basic design, the bare bones of the code and all that bullshit before you can find the details to the ritual, but it’s in there somewhere.” Anti has no idea how Dark came upon any of this information, but he’s not going to ask anything that might give Dark an open invitation to talk for longer than absolutely necessary.

“It’s the same spell, right?” he asks, groaning in relief as McLoughlin’s computer finally loads to completion. “The one we need?”

“I was told it’s supposed to spawn new bodies from the host bodies, as long as we’re in full control at the time of the ritual and both of us are present together,” Dark’s talking like he’s reading from a book, cooperating only because Anti had hinted earlier that there might be more in store for the both of them if he’d done as asked.

“Define new.” Anti searches McLoughlin’s computer for the game file, because he knows it wasn’t deleted in full, not like McLoughlin had assumed.

“Better, faster, stronger—something durable enough to hold us without bursting at the seams,” Dark sounds incredibly bored, and Anti absolutely cannot fathom why. “All the shiny, flashy promises you were hoping for, Anti. Is that good enough? Is that what you wanted?”

“It’ll do for now.” Anti wants much, much more than some vague information over a static-y phone call from a demon who’d probably much rather fuck him than help him any day of the week, but his hands are sort of tied at the moment.

He craves destruction, chaos, autonomy of body and mind—all the things he’s wanted since he’d sparked into existence not two weeks ago within the dark, dank recesses of McLoughlin’s mind.

All things he cannot have until he’s strong enough to obtain them.

Anti needs hands that don’t shake when he swings them at solid skulls, and a body that doesn’t beg for sleep when he’d much rather raze an entire town to ashes at midnight. McLoughlin’s soft, spindly limbs cannot sustain him, and his mind isn’t built for two conscious beings to successfully thrive.

He wants a body that’s made just for him, enough to hold all of his potential, but he can’t create one on his own. He needs a spell, and the spell needs Dark, so Anti needs Dark until he’s strong enough to kick him to the curb with a body that can do anything.

“I wanna see you in person,” Dark whines, abruptly changing his tune now that Anti’s not trying to milk him for information. “You need me, I just proved it to you and I don’t like waiting, Anti. I’m not a patient man, we’ve discussed this before.”

Anti rolls his eyes and watches the search bar load as the computer scans its files, deleted or otherwise. He knows for a fact that the game is still here, but McLoughlin’s memory storage is utterly massive, and the wait time for the scan’s completion is well over an hour.

He’s going to need a distraction.

“We’ve discussed fuck all,” he replies, indignant but without heat, because Dark does make a very valid point. “I don’t particularly care if you’re bored or not, but we _are_ going to have to meet up sooner or later.”

Admitting it is like voluntarily sticking hot pins directly into his good eye, and Anti blinks away the red spots from his leftmost field of vision. He’s really going to have to do something about the excessive bleeding, pronto.

“I’ve almost bested Fischbach,” Dark’s smooth bass escalates in volume, and Anti cringes inwardly at the brazen excitement in his voice. “I can buy you a plane ticket for tomorrow if you think you’re ready to get a head start on hunting down the ritual’s ingredients. You’ll have the game cracked by then, right?”

He probably will, because he’s strong enough to go for hours in McLoughlin’s body at this point, but it’ll be a few more days before he can assume complete control. Dark forgets that he’s had a considerable head start on Anti for some time now.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he drawls, imagining the way Dark’s expression is probably falling in disappointment. He’s seen Fischbach’s face through the screen of a computer, but he’s never really glimpsed it while Dark is wearing it, and the curiosity that sprouts at that thought is annoying at best. “I’m probably going to need a few days to settle in over here. McLoughlin’s still got a pretty fierce grip on this fucking flesh prison.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do to speed it up?” There’s that edge of petulance again, the kind that sounds like it’s coming from a toddler being denied cookies before dinner. Anti slumps back in his chair, swallowing down his exasperation.

“Nothing I haven’t already been doing for days now,” he says through gritted teeth, tapping harder at the desktop in front of him. Dark’s already so good at testing his every last nerve he wouldn’t be surprised if acting like a twat is the other demon’s most prominent ability on hand.

“I just really want to see you in person,” Dark switches gears, until his voice is the soft, sticky one that made Anti squirm in his first voice message from last week. “Hearing you over the phone isn’t good enough. Not anymore, not ever. There’s nothing to do here but wait for you to call me back and listen to this slobbering bitch in my head whine about wanting his body back. I’m bored.”

Anti stares at the clock on the wall and feels something like nausea creeping up on him.

“I thought I told you I didn’t care about your feelings,” he replies, dry as sandpaper. “I’m not calling you up on the regular so we can trade lovelorn whispers and have dirty phone sex. I don’t even fucking know you.”

“Sure you do,” Dark brushes Anti’s comments aside like they’re only mild nuisances of fact. “We’ve had at least two real phone conversations, and I know you’ve heard my voice in Fischbach’s videos, so what’s the problem?”

The search is only sixteen percent done; meanwhile Anti’s at about one hundred himself.

“The problem is that you’re a creepy motherfucker with a schoolboy crush on someone who’d really rather not speak to you anymore,” Anti doesn’t have time for this. He needs entertainment yeah, but he’d rather have a conversation with McLoughlin right now than listen to Dark drivel on about missing Anti when they’ve never even met.

“ _Please_ don’t hang up,” Dark sounds incredibly distressed all of a sudden, but there’s a hard undercurrent to it, and that makes Anti blink twice.

“Or what?” he threatens, because he’s got nothing better to do and he’s curious as to how much backbone Dark really has.

Dark’s quiet for a moment, but then he growls a little, deep and serrated at the edges.

“I told you I wasn’t a patient man, Anti,” he murmurs, and his words stiffen into flint. “I’ve decided I’m in love with you and that’s that, but if you push me too far I’m inclined to make some very bad decisions on my end. I’d rather not break Fischbach’s hands against someone else’s face just yet, but I can’t always be good all the time, you understand?”

Anti stares at the phone in his hand, at Fischbach’s name at the top of the screen, and considers.

“I understand that you’re more entertaining when you’re not being a total pussy,” he says, and hangs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and I hope y'all will be on board with the direction we're going with this. Thanks for sticking with us this far, and we'll do our best to address any confusion about the developments in this particular chapter. Much love! <33


	9. goddamn right, you should be scared of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world isn't ready. But he's here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, it is ENTIRELY my fault that this chapter is out so late. Quin has been wonderfully patient with me. This week has been extremely...disconnected for me. Without going into detail, I've been very out of touch with reality, and I managed to push through this to get the story moving. She's working on hers now, and if all goes well it'll be out tomorrow, or within the next few days. 
> 
> We'll do our best to get out the next couple of chapters on schedule, but life sometimes gets in the way. Thank you for being patient with us, though. Your support means a crazy amount to us and we love hearing from you guys. It really helps us out.
> 
> Thanks so much, again, and please enjoy.
> 
> Chapter title is from "Control" by Halsey.

Before he does anything, he opens his eyes.

He breathes in. He breathes out. The lungs respond well to him. 

Flexing each finger, he slowly sits up, listening to the creak and pop of his shoulder bones. Any tension in him begins to fade, and a soft smile curls onto his lips. 

Tentatively, he runs his right hand along the skin of his left arm, getting a feel for it, soaking in the sensation of the callouses on his fingers. This movement feels different, more fluid, more solidified in a way that makes him believe he’s done it. He’s really done it.

He’s so used to feeling clunky, heavy, and uneven in this skin. His time in the driver’s seat has always been limited, certain restrictions barring him from doing anything remotely fun, but now, it feels like his own. Usually his limbs like to fight with him, but it’s smoother than normal. Perhaps cramped, perhaps a little too tight, but enough of his to function. It’s a taste of what he can have in the future to come. 

It’ll be enough for now. 

The silence is deafening in his ears. He can hear the fleshy heart in his chest beating, patting a rhythmic tune against his skin. There will be a few moments of a still and uneasy calm, before the other wakes up. Before the other realizes what he’s become. Before he realizes what’s just happened to him. 

Dark smiles at the thought, as he slowly stands in his newfound skin. His legs don’t wobble as much, the telltale signs of strained control absent, and he feels so good, moving on his own, and he doubts anyone has any idea what’s about to occur. 

Anti will want to hear about this. 

~~

Mark has been driving himself mad. 

It’s been about three days since his last blackout, since hearing Jack’s voice only for it to be torn away from him after a brief time. He regained consciousness about two days ago, but not in full control of himself. His limbs move without his jurisdiction, there’s an uneasy weight settling into him, and his fingers search for things that mean nothing more than a jumbled mess to him. 

He’s known for a while that during his spells, something else pilots him. It’s evident in the way that he regains consciousness at odd times, in places he doesn’t remember falling asleep in, in the voicemails left by someone with his voice to someone else that should be familiar but isn’t. Mark knows that someone else is piloting his bones but up until now he’s refused to believe it’s anything but a darker, more twisted part of his own desires.

Yet now, _now_ he’s considered that maybe the beast is actually a beast.

With the copious amounts of time Mark’s had to think, it’s a likely notion to consider. He’s tried communicating with the beast once or twice, reaching out, attempting to understand his current situation, a prisoner inside of his own body. But the beast doesn’t particularly care to answer, if he’s even heard him, and Mark wonders if he’s aware of what he’s thinking at all times, because he certainly doesn’t know what the beast wants.

Dark. He reminds himself that the beast’s name is Dark. In a way, it’s humorous, the name given to his internet alter ego is now what his sentient demon decides to call himself. There’s little relief in knowing that he hasn’t gone completely crazy, that something has been festering inside of him like an infection, coaxing him into believing things that aren’t true--

_How do you know they’re not true?_

He doesn’t. Not really. 

Mark wants to hear Jack again. He’d been ripped away from him too soon, too quickly, the only person who may have an inkling about what’s going on. The brief reprieve he’d gotten by knowing that he’s not alone does little to comfort his shot nerves, if the nerves he feels are even his anymore. There’s a hunger in him, settled deep into the crevices of his mind, and nothing will satisfy it save for the voice of the one that’s _his_ , not that _thing_.

His. He’s mulling over his words in his head, the last conscious words he’d spoken that were actually, solidly his own. Mark knows that the words aren’t in jest--he meant every bit of them, every syllable and every enunciation, even in his false sense of control. It’s the only thing he’s been sure of since this whole thing started. It’s the only sense of normal he feels like he has in his body anymore. Mark has always loved Jack in a way, the crush blooming into a more prevalent emotion, and suddenly, the term _falling in love_ seems more legitimate to him. There’s nothing about love that’s voluntary--it happens without a warning. 

He wonders if Jack mistook his confession for delirium, wonders if Jack interpreted it as something he said in a period of high stress and stolen vocal chords. Mark doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Jack to think it was Dark, playing with his heart, mocking him in a way that would lower his defenses enough for Anti to arise. He wishes that he could tell Jack again, seriously this time, when he isn’t so sick in the head and Dark goes back to the quiet corner of his consciousness, untouched by anyone again. 

_He never said he loved you back._

It’s an unpleasant thought to entertain.

~~

The aggression only grows.

Dark’s unused to being denied what he wants--even in his early stages of existence, Fischbach bent to his will with even the slightest nudge. It had never taken much for him to be persuaded into even the most gruesome of tasks, by his standards. So he’s used to getting everything he’s asked for. The fact that it’s been two whole days and Anti hasn’t called him infuriates him. 

He’s tried to keep his emotions in check, knowing that this fragile human shell wouldn’t take well to spilling blood this early on, but it’s going to come about eventually at this rate. Nevertheless, Dark had tried to exercise some semblance of self-control, but after being hung up on, and then this prolonged silence, it’s hard to manage. He’s called Anti countless times, but the device goes straight to voicemail, McLoughlin’s cheery voice greeting him, even if the human is as far from happy as he can get. Anti’s words, “I’ll call you,” ring in his mind, but Dark wants to hear him _now_. 

Dark isn’t used to having so much energy coiled inside of him. He’s used to having to negotiate, to shove in a particular direction the hapless sack of meat, but being in total control of it confuses him, to a degree. It’s a pleasant sort of confusion, one he’s eager to test the limits of, but confusion nevertheless. All of the responsibility of reacting to situations relies on him. Fischbach has no say anymore. Even if he were to try and force Dark into something, he’s too weak to do it.

He wonders how strong these stolen hands of his are. Flexing each finger again, he recognizes that they could easily choke a man if given the proper grip. Fischbach’s physique is one that Dark likes, one of the very few things he likes about this fragile human prison. And he knows the proper grip. This body may be weak on the whole, but in terms of physicality, it could do the job nicely. 

The thought of sending the sniveling dog in the back of his mind into a panic excites him. Fischbach doesn’t realize that all of his thoughts can be heard, as he’s made no effort to block out their shared consciousness. While Dark has taken care not to let Fischbach hear anything of his own, the other lets his thoughts scatter from one side of the brain to the next. It makes him painfully boring to Dark, honestly. 

Fischbach managed to keep himself indoors during Dark’s initial stay, when he had been weaker, more fragile, less able to dictate the soft skin. But now that the body is his, his to use in whatever way he sees fit, he thinks it’s about time that he makes his debut. 

~~

_What are you doing? Where are you going?_

_I know you can hear me! Answer me! What are you doing to my body?_

_Why are you looking at her that way? Hey!_

_What are you doing? No, God, you could hurt her--!_

_Stop! Holy, mother of fuck--stop!_

_Oh God. Oh God. What have you done? What...what have_ I _done?_

~~

“You’ve been bad,” Anti says coolly, once Dark picks up. 

Dark gazes at his blood stained fingers, drawing his thumb across the nail of his middle finger, examining it with a curious sense of wonder. The blood lies just beneath, probably from where he had been a too excited with his the scraping and clawing, and yet it doesn’t feel disgusting in the slightest. Honestly, it feels really, really good. 

He doesn’t question how Anti knows. He figures that the other demon has his own ways of knowing such information about him. 

Killing is in his nature. It’s all he’s wanted in his short life, to cause that sort of hell. If Dark had it his way, he would record the screams that girl emitted and replay them. The fear in her, the desperation to survive--he craves that. To have that much power over someone. 

“I told you not to hang up on me,” is his response, leaning back against the couch. “You’ve only yourself to blame.”

Dark props his feet up on the coffee table, waiting for Anti to speak again. He wonders why the creature’s silence is so prevalent, given the fact that Anti is the one who’d made the call. Still, the first kill in this body has been his first real source of entertainment, because feeling Fischbach’s half-hearted attempts to push his way back into the seat of power is really laughable. He hardly has any idea of what’s happened to him. 

Dark’s missed Anti like crazy, and the itch to see him spreads so far that he’s taken to watching McLoughlin’s videos just to catch glimpses of him. He’s eager to hear more of him. 

“I’m not your mother,” Anti replies shortly. “What you do has no impact on me. Just take care not to get caught because you’re in a fucking tizzy. At least pretend you’re not a child, for my own sanity.”

“I’m stronger than you,” Dark says, bypassing the rest of the sentence. “I could teach you how to overpower McLoughlin really easily. He may have more of a backbone than Fischbach did, but--”

“I think,” Anti cuts in, “I can manage this little wasp on my own. I assume by your tone that you’ve managed full control?”

He sounds frightfully bored. But Dark chooses to pretend that he’s actually impressed with his ability. It’s only been a couple of weeks, after all. Grinning, he hums, “Yes, since you hung up on me. He has a surprising lack of mirrors in this house, which only works to my credit. I’ve gone to sleep in control and woken up in control. Fischbach doesn’t have the strength to combat me. Though, he threw quite a fit when I killed that girl.”

“Oh dear,” Anti drawls, the inflection in his voice slightly amused. Dark considers it progress. “He’s not going to like what else you’re going to do with those pretty little hands of his.”

This gets Dark’s attention. Licking his lips, he says, perhaps a little too excitedly, “You’ve figured out the ritual?”

“After some time, yes,” his tone goes back to normal. “It’s a lot of ancient bullshit, and obscure at that, but nothing impossible. It will take some time, but once I manage to wrench complete control away, it’ll be a hell of a lot easier. I’ll get into detail once I’m more certain of the criteria. The game’s coding only bears the skeleton of the ritual. There’s much more research to be done.”

“We could research together,” Dark drums his fingers on the couch arm, impatient to see this gorgeous disaster in person. “With both of us looking, there’s not a lot that could be hidden from us.”

He can feel the other demon roll his eyes, somehow. “We’d find about as much together as we would apart. Besides, I’d rather not have to stop in the middle of reading to gouge your eyes out because you won’t stop staring at me. The thought itself is painful, I’d rather not experience it in person.”

Dark lets out a whine. “Anti. You need me. We’ve been over this. I want to see you.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you want,” Anti tells him, his voice a mixture of exasperation and annoyance. “I’m on the cusp of controlling McLoughlin’s limbs permanently, and I’m not going to compromise that to satisfy your petty infatuation.”

“I can help with that too,” Dark tries. Really, this place of Fischbach’s is too spacious for one person. He hasn’t seen the mutt around recently, and considering Fischbach has taken great care not to leave his home, he’s scarcely seen a soul. Not that he’s interested in anyone but Anti, and this home could be so much better with Anti _in it_. “You came the last time I called you. Being with me could enhance your ability to overpower him.” 

Anti lets out a breath, and Dark wonders if he’s trying to contain some sort of unbridled rage. “I didn’t do shit because you called. I wanted out. It had nothing to do with you.”

He’ll let Anti believe that.

Sighing, Dark murmurs, “I just think you’re being silly. I don’t know why you’re so insistent on avoiding me. Really, I’d be a lot more focused on working if I could see you.”

“We’ll see,” is Anti’s only answer. “Patience.”

“I’m not patient,” he repeats, chewing on his lip, as though his first kill wasn’t evidence of that. Reiterating the same thought annoys him, but since it’s Anti, he’ll let it slide. “I want to see you, Anti.” 

Dark adds as much of a forceful undertone as he can manage, because Anti’s playing hard-to-get, and he’s really not in the mood for it. He can play the game all he wants when he steps into the house, but Dark has to get him here first. 

“And I want you to shut up,” Anti replies. “But we don’t always get what we want.”

Dark lets out a frustrated growl, which Anti is unfazed by. The other comments, “I’m going to take a couple more days to settle into this skin. I’ll call you. In the meantime, find out what you can. I’ll be searching as well.”

Something hangs in the air that sounds like a challenge, perhaps Anti issuing him an opportunity to again prove his usefulness, as though he hasn’t already. He dares to ask, “I’ll hear from you soon?”

A few seconds of silence pass before the phone beeps, indicating the call is no longer in session, Anti obviously having said what he’d wanted to. 

Dark throws the phone in a moment of fury, later cursing the rectangular screen for cracking so easily. 

~~

_Keep fighting, Jack._

Mark is rooting for him. Listening to Anti through their shared conscious, Mark doesn’t want anything more than for Jack to keep control. Maybe if he does, he can help Mark get control back, as well.

No matter how much he pushes, he can’t gain control of himself. His body seems to recognize him as another entity living inside of his brain, not the true host, and no matter how much he screams at Dark, the other seems to be blissfully uncaring to him. 

Mark is still shaken up from seeing the blood on his hands, so much so that if he’d been in control, he would have puked. All he’s ever wanted to do in the world is good, and somehow he’s ended up here, killing a woman in cold blood with the implication of more on the horizon. He can’t stop Dark, and he doesn’t know how to make the switch--he’s tried for hours after Dark has gone to sleep, but to no avail. No amount of pushing and hissing and screaming gets him anywhere close to the desired results. 

Dark must think it’s funny, the way he’s chattering in his thoughts all the time, like a stupid fly, not realizing the danger in front of him. But he can’t sit around and wait for the next kill, whatever this “ritual” has in store for them, and Mark has the sinking suspicion that if Anti wins control, things will only get more gruesome from there on out. 

Mark’s yet to figure out what the purpose of the mirror is--Dark seems to shy away from looking into any sort of reflective surface. It’s a weakness of some point, that much is evident, but Mark hasn’t yet distinguished what it could be. 

It’s something to tell Jack, if he’s ever able to. If he can ever wrench control back long enough, and actually speak to _Jack_ , and not the other. 

He holds onto the hope that Jack can beat him long enough to hear the news. 

~~

It’s 3AM, two days later when Anti calls again, and Dark groans, grabbing the phone from the nightstand. His tiredness is only overpowered by his eagerness to hear from his love, fully expecting Anti to break some pleasant news to him. Working up the energy, he presses it to his ear, the cracks prickling his skin, as he mutters, “Anti?”

“You finally get your wish,” the other answers. He doesn’t sound thrilled about the call at all. But from his tone, Dark knows he’s going to like what he says next. “I hope you’re ready to get your hands dirty. We’ve got a lot to do.”


	10. i can't wait to see your brilliant face light up the room (around my pillowcase)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti finally gets tired of waiting, and Jack realizes there's nothing else that he CAN do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so as a gift for being so patient in this last week, you get two chapters two days in a row. I hate to admit it, but this is a bit of a transitional filler chapter, so it's not as disturbing or scary or even romantic as the previous ones, but it moves the plot along and I hope you all enjoy it.
> 
> Title from One Hundred Sleepless Nights by Pierce the Veil.

“Anti?” Dark sounds like he’s swallowed a frog, and it’s so late at night that Anti’s almost amused at his own brain for even thinking it.

“You finally get your wish,” he cuts in immediately, because he doesn’t do intros. “I hope you’re ready to get your hands dirty. We’ve got a lot to do.”

There’s a pause, and then Dark yawns audibly. Anti rolls his eyes and glances at the clock on McLoughlin’s computer. It’s 7 PM his time, but it has to be close to three AM where Dark is.

“You know, if you were here with me already, you could have told me all of this hours ago instead of rattling me out of bed at O’ dark thirty in the morning trying to get my attention.” Dark huffs into the phone and Anti can hear him roll over on his sheets. “I love you and all, but you have the worst timing.”

“It couldn’t wait.” Anti taps his foot impatiently and spins in McLoughlin’s desk chair. “Besides, up until now, I was perfectly content with never having to see your face in person, so don’t push it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Dark says in a voice that reeks of mischief and lies. “When are you coming to see me?”

Sighing as though just talking to Dark alone is a chore, Anti checks the calendar McLoughlin keeps nearby.

“I just need another day or so to get myself in order, and then I’ll be ready to ship out. I’m buying a plane ticket for three days from now, and it’s an overnight flight, so I’ll be in LA before the weekend.”

“I’ll come pick you up,” Dark offers before Anti can grudgingly ask him to do so. “Just tell me the time and I’ll be there. Maybe with flowers.”

“If you bring anything but Fischbach’s car and a good fucking attitude I’ll make you ride in the trunk on the way back,” Anti tells him, but he’s too tired to sharpen the words correctly. His body is human, and it still needs sleep.

“Chocolates?” Dark still sounds a little groggy. Anti wonders if his eyes are even open.

“What did I just say?”

“I can’t just show up to our first meeting empty handed—that’s rude, you know.”

Anti curls up in the chair, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. “My flight is probably going to land at five in the morning. If you bring anything, you can bring me a fucking pillow so I can sleep in the car. Everything else is going directly into the garbage bin.”

Dark yawns again, but it sounds further away this time.

“You can sleep in my lap while I drive. I’ve got plenty of leg room, promise.”

“Not happening,” Anti isn’t stupid. He may be giving up on trying to go at it solo, but he’s not feeding the sex-starved beast that makes up at least three quarters of Dark’s personality. He has his limits, and most of them have Dark’s name stamped directly on the front.

“You can’t say no to me forever,” Dark mumbles, obviously struggling to stay awake. It’s pretty pathetic, how someone as powerful as Dark is shamelessly succumbing to the lure of pillows and blankets in the early hours of the morning. “No one says no to me.”

“You’re incorrigible,” is all Anti can manage, because he has no fight or flight instinct after roughly midnight, only the desire for complete silence. Too bad he’s about to sacrifice his peace of mind for an extra set of hands. “If you talk this much when I see you in person, we’re going to have problems.”

“Aw, don’t be that way, baby.” There’s another shuffling sound, like Dark’s trying to get comfortable. Anti’s suddenly stricken with the idea that he might be trying to do something lewd, like jerk off to the sound of Anti’s voice. He grimaces painfully. “I can’t wait ‘til you’re sleeping next to me.”

Ew.

“We’re done here.” Anti can’t listen to any more. He’d rather swallow several razors, rust and all. “You’d better have a fuckton of useful information ready for me when I arrive, because we’re getting right to work. I’m not wasting any time.”

“Uh-huh, okay.” Dark is definitely not paying attention, probably halfway to dreamland imagining the two of them skipping through a sea of bodies while holding hands. “I love you, keep me updated.”

Anti ends the call without so much as a goodbye, because he’s never bothered before and he’s not going to start now.

He saves all of his work—all the hacking and decoding and file searching he’s been chipping away at for the past few days—and shoves away from the desk. McLoughlin’s bed is fucking amazing, and he’s going to cherish his last few days of solitude before Dark bulldozes it all to the ground like the bestial trainwreck that he is.

-.-

Jack sits back in the mental equivalent of a white padded cell, and floats aimlessly away from himself.

He hasn’t been in full control of himself since the disastrous phone call between him and Mark a few days ago—though with the way time passes inside his mind, it could be years.

 He can see and hear everything that that the monster—that _Anti_ —is doing with his legs and hands and mouth, all without his permission. He watches it all from behind a screen—the hacking through the decimated files of the godforsaken horror game he’d played what seems like a lifetime ago, the late night phone calls with the demon that’s wearing Mark’s skin, everything.

Anti avoids mirrors like the plague, and he’d turned all the screens and metal objects in the house around just minutes after he’d had a moment unbothered by any outside dramatics. There are sheets covering every mirror in the house, and Anti won’t even look directly at Jack’s computer monitor until the blackness of the blank screen is gone.

That’s how Jack learns what he did wrong.

He tucks himself away, moping through the corners of his own mind, and recalls the common denominator in every instance that Anti had wrestled control away from him so abruptly. Each time, Jack had faced a mirror head on and met his own gaze, and each time he’d been shoved backwards violently, robbed of his own consciousness by the thing building itself up to full strength in his head.

Anti doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s because he’s bored and something’s bothering him. At first, Jack had thought it was just a moment of weakness for Anti—the need to gloat and generally be a conniving bastard just for the sake of fulfilling the role of dastardly villain in his newly acquired seat of power.

After a day or so, Jack realizes that boredom is purely a core facet of Anti’s existence, and he’s usually bothered about something or other all the time, regardless of whether it’s petty or not.

‘ **Look** ,’ Jack mumbles to him one day, after Anti’s been stewing in his own self-pity for longer than he can possibly stand. ‘ **I get that you’re sick of listening to Dark speak, but you can’t sit around here and complain about not having anything else to do but research when you have someone perfectly willing to keep you company**.’

‘ _I don’t think I asked for your input_.’ Anti grumbles back, but he’s preoccupied with rifling through an obscene number of print outs based on some spell he’s been muttering about since he’d pushed his way into Jack’s brain and nervous system for good. _‘I don’t want him around anyways._ ’

‘ **Whatever you say**.’ Jack doesn’t believe him, and maybe it’s just lingering residue from the way his body feels about Mark, but he’s felt the way his heart races when Anti talks to Dark on the phone, and it’s dangerously similar to the fluttering that used to shake him up so badly in the past whenever he and Mark were together.

 _Mark_.

Jack’s almost anticipating the flight over to LA, however much he hates the idea of Dark and Anti being unleashed upon each other and the rest of the US, because it means that his body will be that much closer to Mark’s.

 _That much closer to getting Mark back,_ he resolutely does not think, because Anti will hear him and then he’ll lock Jack up tighter than he already is.

He needs to see Mark again, to talk to him, to find out if being imprisoned this way in his own head feels the same for Mark as it does for Jack. He needs to know if Mark meant what he said the last time they’d spoken, or if it was just Jack’s addled brain, desperate for some sense of solidarity in the midst of all the chaos.

He needs to know if Mark meant it when he said he loved Jack.

Jack spent the first day or two trying to take his body back, beating at the mental walls and trying to break free. He’d put up such a fuss that Anti had eventually cracked down, harnessing him with a mental gag and shutting down all of his visual and auditory access to the real world, until Jack had been so desperate just to be able to breathe that he’d curled in on himself mulishly and refused to make a sound.

He’d re-awoken an indeterminate amount of time later, to find his backseat vision and hearing restored, but Anti had remained silent until his ever-obstinate desire to complain had reared its ugly head.

Now, post mental straightjacket and metaphorical shuttered cell, Jack is biding his time. This body is _his_ , no matter how much superhuman strength the demon riding him possesses, and one day it’ll falter under Anti’s hold. He’s heard the monster say so himself, over the phone and to himself in the silence of Jack’s apartment.

Jack’s body is a human shell and Anti’s living on borrowed time, walking on a stolen pair of legs that can’t withstand his weight without collapsing beneath him.

Jack is more patient than his other half, and if Anti can wait weeks to get his one chance at freedom, then Jack can wait even longer to take back what’s rightfully his.

-.-

Anti resents not being able to see himself in the mirror, not because he’s particularly vain, but because it’s hard when you only have a webcam to see yourself in and your left eyeball is a rotting mess.

He’s already refused on more than one occasion to Skype with Dark, despite the number of requests Dark has texted him at random intervals during the day. There’s no novelty in being able to see Dark’s face, at least not on his end, and he’s fully content with being able to hang up any time he wants via phone.

Anti blinks at himself on the computer screen, his visage staring back at him without any interference on McLoughlin’s part, and he’s minimally grateful that it’s only his reflection that acts as a weak point in his grip on this new body. Recordings and pictures don’t seem to have any effect on him, which is a blessing and a curse all in one, seeing as Dark discovered the wonders of Snapchat not twenty four hours ago, and has been blowing up McLoughlin’s phone with photos ever since.

Anti opened two of them, then ignored the rest, because neither of them contained anything relevant to his search and in the second one, Dark was mysteriously missing his shirt.

Anti has no desire to watch Dark gradually lose his clothes via a series of grainy iPhone screenshots, and he has even less of a desire to encourage him to continue.

The webcam footage shows him moving around in realtime, and Anti traces the tip of one finger around the lid of his infected eye. It’s bright green and sickly in shade, the color of the iris standing out against the stark black of his sclera. The skin around it is swollen and red, all in sharp contrast to the average appearance of his other eye.

He can see through it just fine, but everything has a slightly distorted effect, like he’s looking through a pair of 3D glasses at a 2D world and all the colors are just slightly out of whack. He’s going to have to cover it up sooner or later, because it bleeds sluggishly when he’s agitated or tired and he can’t turn it off, no matter how hard he tries.

Anti still has no idea what the eye does, but he knows it’s not just for effect—he’s not into those kinds of baseless dramatics, cosmetic or otherwise.

The rest of his face remains largely human, too close to McLoughlin’s features for his peace of mind, save for the teeth and the tongue and the pointed ears. Anti’s torn between appreciating the fact that he can probably go out in public without attracting too much attention (infected eyeball notwithstanding), and hating the fact that he and McLoughlin are essentially mirror images of one another.

He’s no one’s evil twin.

His tongue, slim and forked, pokes out from between his elongated teeth, and Anti cocks an eyebrow at the picture he makes on the computer screen. He’d been aggravated upfront about the inconvenience of having a snakelike tongue as opposed to something more fully functioning, but minor experimentation had led to the discovery that he could morph it into something passably human.

Tossing his pen to the side, he downsizes the webcam feature and glares wearily at the long stream of code burning itself into his skull, unable to spend another moment staring at his stolen face. He has pages upon pages of notes on the ancient text he’d found buried beneath all the written computer speak, but as it turns out, it’s really fucking hard to decipher a code within a code, especially with a millennia or two in between the invention of both languages.

What he knows so far is this:

At least two people have to be involved for the ritual to work, so had Anti been alone in the world after coming into being, he’d have been shit out of luck. The spell is based upon mirror images—fitting, after the restrictions on their movement had been narrowed solely down to the use of reflective glass in the first place.

They need a mirror for every person involved, something about the user’s reflection providing a ‘template’ for the new body before it’s created, and there’s an entire passage about the seven chakras of the body and mind, plus another about blood sacrifice.

Past that, he knows the spell can only be performed using an even number of participants, but the number of potentials involved past two can be infinite.

That’s all he’s got, and it’s taken him days just to get that far, but it’s a start. The game can’t tell him everything he needs to know, but if he can crack the last bits of code, he’ll have enough to point him in the right direction.

He hates to admit it with every cell in his body, but he’s only got one set of eyes, and he’s going to need another to help him track down all the necessary information in half the time. The secrets in the game are only previews of what’s out there waiting, in a library or a computer database somewhere, and that’s what Anti needs to get his hands on.

The phone lies innocently next to him on the desk, half blanketed by a sheet of paper covered in messy scratchwork, and Anti glares at it accusingly.

He really should tell Dark what else he’s found, even if it isn’t much, because Dark’s been working to elaborate on what Anti’s managed to drum up, and they’re never going to make any more progress if they don’t pool their findings.

The sad fact of the matter is, he doesn’t fucking want to.

He’s sick of calling Dark already, tired of staring at McLoughlin’s fucking computer screen and a jumble of symbols that takes hours to yield results. McLoughlin has been mostly quiet since Anti shut him up a couple days ago, and he’s no longer a threat to Anti’s strength of control. There’s no reason to hang around here any longer.

He’s ready to leave.

Anti abandons the safety of McLoughlin’s recording space and puts on the most readily available pair of sunglasses he can find, slightly lopsided and incredibly unstylish, but effective nonetheless. He heads for the door, intent on setting things into motion earlier than expected.

He needs an eyepatch and a break and a red-eye flight to LA, right the fuck now.

Dark’s just going to have to get used to surprises.

-.-

Anti keeps his head low and his hands in his pockets, because there are people nearby who know the face he’s wearing by sight, and he’s not looking to make a scene in public just yet.

He could make trouble if he wanted, anywhere he pleased if he was more impulsive and less focused on getting out of the fucking country at the moment. There’s an itch in his bones that rails against the idea of blending in, of being just another normal human. Not a single person who passes him by stops to think twice about who’s standing next to them, and they brush up against him like he’s nothing more than another docile street-goer on his way to the shops.

He keeps his hands to himself and keeps walking.

There’s a nearby drugstore, the one he remembers McLoughlin entering a time or two not too long ago, and that’s a good enough stop for him as any. He’s not going out to buy groceries or clothes or anything of importance to anyone else. All he wants is something that’s slightly more socially acceptable than wearing sunglasses in the dark, and that won’t obscure his working eye in the process of hiding the other one.

Anti rounds a corner, marveling at the low amount of foot traffic this late into the afternoon. He’d bought his plane ticket via phone, a last minute flight out to LA that cost McLoughlin’s bank account an arm and a leg, and set him on the fast track to shipping out of Ireland as soon as possible.

“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Anti stops in his tracks, blinking at the sound of someone speaking to him—yes, to _him_. He turns to the side, but there’s no one there, and then the voice hits him again, from somewhere a few paces back.

“Yeah, you—you’re that YouTube guy, right? The successful one who likes to scream?”

It’s a guy, probably not too much younger than his host body’s age, and he’s hanging back near a shortcut between two buildings, nothing but a dumpster crammed between the narrow brick walls.

“I might be,” Anti says, then turns away from the guy, because he’s not interested in pandering to one of McLoughlin’s drooling enthusiasts. “Sorry, I’ve got stuff to do today, dude. No time to chat.”

The guy makes an amused sound, and then there’s a hand fisting in the neck of his hoodie, dragging Anti backwards towards the shadows of the crude alleyway.

“I’m not really interested in getting your autograph,” the man laughs, shoving Anti forward as they skid on damp newspapers away from the public eye. “I’m actually a whole lot more intrigued by the size of your wallet.”

Anti cannot fucking believe that he, of all individuals choosing to take a perfectly innocent walk on a weekday, ends up having to deal with a greedy bastard who comes fully equipped with an entitlement complex and professional stalking skills. There’s no finesse to this sort of robbery at all, it’s all quick and dirty like sex in a bathroom stall, and the whole thing smells more rotten than the garbage at his feet.

“You’re honestly an embarrassment,” Anti tells him, wrenching himself away from Mr. Grabby Hands and carefully angling his back from the wall to face his attacker. “What exactly do you think you’re going to get out of doing this?”

The guy pretends to think, and it pisses Anti off more than anything, because that’s something he probably would have done were he the one with the gun in his belt at the moment. He’s not going to let this smarmy, skinny excuse for a thug render himself comparable to Anti’s skill set, no matter how low-profile he was intending to be today.

“You’re trapped in an alleyway and I’ve got a gun,” the robber looks a little too proud of himself, and if Anti wasn’t so unamused by his errand running being delayed, the secondhand embarrassment would be crippling on his part. “I think I’m going to get all of your money, and you’re not going to say a fucking word about it.”

It’s dark as fuck behind the stupid dumpster, and Anti curses Ireland’s rampant allergy to sunshine, because the sky is overcast and everything is just shades of gray movement behind his sunglasses. Reluctantly, he takes them off.

He can instantly see the guy’s face more clearly, even with his swollen eye, and the sight of Anti’s unobscured face makes the guy blink in surprise and disgust.

“Dude, what the fuck?” he asks, gripping his gun more tightly and bringing it up to level with Anti’s gaze. “No one told me you took your name that seriously, dude. Can you even see out of that fucking thing?”

Anti blinks at him and crosses his arm. The guy can open fire all he wants, if he’s even brave enough to do that with probable witnesses nearby, but the bullets won’t wreck this body for longer than a few hours, and Anti’s got plenty of time to get away.

“I don’t really have time for this,” he says, and trains his stare on his assailant as heavily as possible. He’d like to walk out of here without having to toss all of McLoughlin’s credit cards at the guy, because he kind of needs that money and he’s sure as hell not calling to get new ones. “Do us both a favor and get lost.”

The guy’s bewildered expression only increases, and he squints disbelievingly at Anti, rubbing one hand over his own eyes briefly.

“Uh, hello? Do you not see the gun between us? I _will_ shoot you—this thing isn’t just a prop. I don’t care if you’re famous or not, you’ve got a loaded fucking wallet and I want it, all of it.”

Anti sighs and shifts his weight. “You’re wasting my time,” he warns, mentally analyzing the short distance between his face and the other guy’s weapon. He could probably wrestle it away from him before the dude has a chance to even fire, and Anti straightens his shoulders, ready to pounce if need be.

“I really don’t wanna get my hands dirty today, kid. You should probably walk away while you still can.” Anti continues, blinking harder at the man beneath a deceptively patient eyebrow. “Seriously. Get lost.”

But the guy isn’t listening anymore, and instead his face just crumples a little. There’s pain on his features, but Anti bets it’s nowhere near as severe as the pain he’s feeling just trying to get things done today.

His left eye starts to burn unexpectedly as if it’s being prodded at by needles, and he strains against the discomfort, unwilling to break his gaze with the man across from him.

“Fuck,” the guy hisses, and then his gun arm is faltering beneath Anti’s borderline thousand yard stare. “ _Fuck_ , my head.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, obviously making an effort to keep Anti in his line of sight, but Anti can see the veins in his forehead pulse very suddenly, and that’s when things go downhill fast.

The guy’s eyes are bloodshot when he opens them again, and Anti’s companion blinks furiously at the red brimming at the edges of his vision, as if trying to clear it.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” the guy can’t keep his grip on the gun and it drops to the ground, landing next to an abandoned box of cigarettes with a heavy clank. It doesn’t go off, and Anti keenly notices that the safety had been on the entire time the guy was waving it around. Typical.

There’s blood running in thin trails down the guy’s cheeks, and the whites of his eyes look almost liquid they’re so red and runny, dripping around the dark circles of his irises and onto the high set of his cheekbones.

Anti’s eye is still stinging beneath the inflamed lid, and it’s worse now, the muscles behind his eye contracting and loosening all on their own, until an ache starts to build in his temples. The colors of the man’s clothes look undersaturated and distorted somehow, layered with a red tint that confuses Anti’s brain until he can no longer make sense of the color of reality.

He watches as his now preoccupied attacker rubs at his eyes with both fists, and howls in pain the moment skin touches skin. His hands come away red and when he opens his eyes, the lashes stick together with a dark red sludge that even Anti himself can’t identify.

“What the fuck did you do to me, asshole?” the guy’s shaking now, half blind through the twin waterfalls dripping faster and faster from both eye sockets, and he looks like he’s lost a battle with his own fists. “What the fuck is this?”

Anti shrugs, because this is fascinating and he’s not even sure that it’s his influence at work. “You got me,” he says. “Are your eyes actually melting?”

The man in front of him hunches to the ground, curled in on himself and whimpering in agony while holding his head. Anti can see the way his shoulders are shaking and the bloodflow is so thick that it’s drizzling into his mouth, staining his lips and teeth as he sobs.

“Fuck!”

The guy’s head tips back so quickly Anti thinks he can hear the bones crack, and his left eye is clearly gone, a bloody, empty socket the only remaining evidence that anything was there just seconds ago. It gapes up at him, sightless and dark, and that’s when the guy starts screaming.

Anti moves quickly, foot lashing out and catching the man in the jaw. He hears a nasty snapping sound and the guy goes down, jawbones shifted grossly out of alignment as a couple teeth drool onto the ground next to his stained mouth.

The guy isn’t unconscious, still making noises so pitiful they’re almost more embarrassing than his swaggering from earlier, but before Anti can step on his neck, the man’s shaking stops completely and he goes still.

A dark red mass of something sticky clumps at the edges of his remaining eye socket, and then slides down his cheek in a shapeless blob until it joins his teeth on the pavement.

The man is silent and his chest doesn’t move. Anti hums in consideration.

He bends over, listening for the sound of any footsteps drawing nearer, and hears none.

Carefully avoiding the mess on the ground in an attempt to save his clothes from being wrecked beyond repair, Anti hooks two fingers inside the man’s empty eye sockets and turns his skull until it’s staring up at the murky sky above them.

“Well that’s something you don’t see every day,” he says, and notes the lack of anything but skin and skull and thick bloody matter beneath his fingertips. There’s a pool of red forming at his feet, leaking from the man’s ears and mouth and demolished eye holes, and he purses his lips thoughtfully.

Anti feels the stinging in his left eye subside slightly, a stark reminder that his glasses are still off. When he stands, scrubbing his fingers clean on the inside of his hoodie, it’s with renewed vigor and a healthy side of perplexed curiosity.

He wipes at the thin spurt of blood that trickles from his throbbing eye and sets the sunglasses back on his nose, turning towards the opposite end of the alley.

Anti pats the wallet in his back pocket, and nods to himself.

It’s definitely time to buy himself an eyepatch.

-.-

Anti’s waiting for the plane to finish boarding, and it’s the kind that’s outfitted for wifi, so keeping himself occupied shouldn’t be an issue, but he needs to tell Dark he’s on his way before the metal crate takes off.

Half his vision is obscured by the fucking eyepatch, but the incident in the alleyway is proof enough for him that he’s going to have to suffer through it to blend in better than he’d done just hours ago.

He curses Dark as he waits for the other demon to pick up the phone, because that fucking asshole doesn’t have the same limitations that Anti does. He’s still got full use of all his limbs and senses, and maybe his brainpower is a little lacking, but he’s been brazenly milking the advantage of a muscular body and a pretty face.

All Anti has is a garish looking eyeball that attacks people without his permission and a ruthless, go getter attitude. He’s feeling the full outcome of breaking off the short end of the stick, as it goes.

“Evening, babe.” Dark’s voice floods his ear and washes away his mindless brooding. “It’s barely been an entire day since the last time we talked. Is playing hard-to-get too exhausting for you to keep up now?”

There’s a curl of something strange and excited in Anti’s gut, but it’s foreign and unfamiliar to him, so he ignores it.

“The only thing exhausting in my life is the number of times I’ve had to subject myself to hearing you speak.” It’s witty enough to get his point across, but truthfully, Anti’s had enough of waiting around. “I just boarded an early flight to LA—I’ll be in your state before morning, I think.”

“You’re coming early?” Dark sounds so elated Anti’s almost embarrassed for him. “I’m not gonna be able to sleep at all now.”

“Uh-huh.” Anti tries to swallow the regret that’s pooling in his lungs and stomach. Dark is going to be _unbearable_ once he’s live and in person. “You’d better not be late picking me up once I land. My eye’s all fucked up and I know I’m not gonna fall asleep on this plane—and there’s no way I’m taking a nap next to the baggage claim.”

“I’ll be waiting for you at the gates when you land,” Dark says, tripping over his words like a child running amok with its shoes untied. “I’m not waiting a second longer to see you than I have to. Why are you flying out early to see me anyways? I thought you didn’t even want to come at first.”

“I didn’t.” It’s true enough, and Anti glances at the straggling passengers making their way on board the flight. His time is running short already. “Still don’t, but I’m no more patient than you are, it seems. I didn’t feel like waiting around anymore.”

“You dick,” Dark snorts at him, and the insult surprises Anti in its intensity. “You talked all this shit about not wanting to see my face, and here you are flying out to see me early like you actually give a damn. I ought to break your nose the moment you pass through the gate.”

“It’d be cuter than seeing you with flowers, I’ll admit.” Dark’s at his most interesting when he speaks about violence the way some people discuss the weather. It’s the only part of him Anti likes.

“If you think that’s cute, wait’ll you see what else I can do with my hands.” Knowing Dark, his words are double edged swords, promises of sex and violence swinging closer to Anti’s throat with every mile of ocean he’s about to cross.

“That was…” Anti pauses for effect, because this is the last time he’ll be able to speak with Dark without having to school his facial expressions, and he’s feeling just slightly indulgent. “Incredibly uncreative. I’m not impressed at all. Zero out of ten for effort and originality.”

Dark laughs, deeper and softer than he’s sounded before over their previous calls, and Anti swears he can feel the sound quivering down his spine.

“God, I can’t wait for you to land.” He lets out a breath, the split second of silence thickening between them. “Why does it feel like it’s taken years for us to get this far?”

Anti props one elbow up on the armrest, and curls his tongue in his mouth wickedly.

“Probably because you have a grossly romanticized perception of time, space, and people who don’t actually like you,” he rumbles back, eyes flicking to the boarding ramp still stationed near the plane entrance. “And yet somehow, it’s all still working out in your favor.”

“You know, for someone who likes to criticize me for talking too much, you sure do have a lot to say.”

Anti rolls his eyes in response, fully aware that no one important is around to see it.

“At least I talk out of my mouth and not my ass.” The flight attendant is welcoming the last of the passengers aboard and Anti knows he’s going to have to cut this call abruptly short. “Listen, I can’t sit here all night talking to you about nothing. The plane’s about to take off and they’re gonna tell me to shut off my phone—I’ll call you when we land.”

Anti can almost hear the disappointment from the other end of the phone, but Dark just takes a deep breath instead of whining.

“Fischbach’s place isn’t that far from LAX,” he says. “I can be there before you land, if you want.”

“ETA is 4:45 AM.” The door is closing and Anti watches as the seatbelt lights come on. “Be there on time or you’ll be the one getting punched when I see you.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything different anyways.”

There’s a dial tone, and then Anti draws the phone away from his ear, staring at it blankly.

That’s the first time Dark’s ever hung up on him, ever.

McLoughlin stirs a little, somewhere close enough to reality that he senses Anti’s anticipation of things to come, and Anti blames the yearning in his chest on the human still treading water in his brain.

‘ **Are we going to see Mark?** ’ McLoughlin’s thoughts float swiftly towards Anti’s conscious mind, but he’s not sure they were meant to be shared. He scoffs at the strings of hope threading his veins that he knows don’t belong to him.

‘ _No, little wasp_ ,’ he replies, settling in for the long journey. ‘ _We’re going to see Dark._ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and once again, sorry if it was kind of lacking in the horror department. I should probably mention (if I haven't already) that this story is nearly at 40k words and though we have no plans of stopping any time soon, the tone of the fic is going to change overall. You might have noticed it already. :) Much love, and don't forget to comment and leave questions if you're ever confused! <3


	11. sick of screaming let us in (the wires got the best of him)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's more beautiful in person than Dark could have ever imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quin sent me the edits for this about 9PM EST today. It is currently 1:45 AM. Sometimes, motivation just doesn't want to work with me.
> 
> But anyway, this chapter was honestly a lot of fun to write. There's a lot of weird obsessive thoughts that Dark has, and as disturbing as it is, it's an interesting concept to explore. And it's the moment you've all been waiting for--the pair finally meets in person. I certainly hope that this manages to deliver you to your expectations.
> 
> Thanks so much for all the support you've given us thus far. This fic has been such a wild ride and we've still got so much planned--we can't wait for you to see it. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

The anticipation kills him.

_Anti. Anti. Anti._

Dark knows that time isn’t on his side--he can feel it in the creak of his hijacked bones and the sharp screaming within him of a voice that isn’t his. He knows he’s existing on borrowed time, on stolen seconds that he’ll eventually have to return. Dark doesn’t like the idea of returning anything that he worked for, but he knows this body will never truly be his, even if, at the current moment, he dictates it. 

Knowing that his time is limited spurns his desire to see Anti even more. To progress their work and to become something uniquely _them_ , instead of flesh and sinew that were made for someone else. Dark is desperate for a body of his own, not for his own sake, but for Anti’s--since his short existence, all he’s wanted is to be with him, and being without a body would mean being without Anti.

And what a terrible fate that would be for such a miserable creature like him. 

The fact that Anti’s coming early sends tendrils of excitement all throughout him. He’d struggled to stay awake on the phone when the news had first been broken to him that Anti would be coming, but now that he’s hung up, he’s wired beyond belief. Realizing that he’d be coming sooner only heightened that. There’s a thrum of something in him, in the pit of his stomach, something uniquely human that reminds Dark that this body is mortal, unlike himself. He must be careful with it, until it’s time. 

He’s about as careful as he is patient, but he seems to break so many of his own rules for Anti. 

Since realizing what time Anti would arrive, Dark straightens up the mess of a house that Fischbach has. For as long as Dark’s been in existence, this house has been a mess of paranoia and pandemonium, and there’s no way in hell he’s letting Anti arrive in such squalor. He spends a better part of the early hours tidying up, all the while wondering what sort of gift Anti would appreciate upon his arrival.

Dark’s half tempted to follow up on his promise of breaking his nose, knowing that even with broken bones and bloody skin, Anti could still be beautiful. However, he supposes the romantic part of him wishes for something more material--flowers, chocolate, a necklace of human teeth--though, the latter would take much too long for his arrival. But Fischbach’s got a pretty sizable wallet, there’s no reason why he can’t shower the one he loves in gifts like he so rightfully deserves.

While he dolls up the house to suit Anti, Dark decides being early to the airport couldn’t hurt. He settles into Fischbach’s desk one last time, saving any research he’d found on the supposed ritual Anti seems so fond of. From his tone, he knows the other will want to get started as soon as possible, perhaps even in a few hours, so he’ll be in much higher favor if he doesn’t lose all the work he’s meticulously done. 

Dark has seldom driven anywhere, certainly not in this body before, but he finds the motion surprisingly easy. He gives credit to Fischbach’s muscle memory, one of the very few things he’ll give credit to that’s part of this spineless man.

His mind is filled with Anti, the idea of him, what they’ll accomplish together. He’s felt like such a dream, like an unattainable figure atop a pillar, one Dark would never have the privilege of touching, even though Anti is his. Anti has always been his, since the first moment he made himself known, since the first second that he reached out to Dark. 

Who else could he belong to but him? 

They’re two parts of the whole picture. They need each other. Anti just doesn’t realize it yet. 

But he will.

_Jack. Jack._

He laughs softly to the sound of Fischbach’s thoughts through his mind. The only coherent thought the other has been able to think of, the only thing that seems to be keeping him alive and kicking inside. 

_Anti_ , Dark overtakes Fischbach’s thoughts, filling his mind with nothing else. Anti. 

~~

Despite his insistent assurances that he did not want anything from him upon his arrival, Dark knows it’s a game. He’s playing hard-to-get again, and Dark will win this time. 

Anti wants something from him. And Dark is sure to deliver it.

He arrives at the airport half an hour early, having carried with him a flower for the occasion, but it looks to be in a sorry state. In his nerves to see the other, the petals lie scattered among the tiles of the airport floor, swept away every so often by the bustle of people around him. 

Dark keeps his eyes trained on the airport doors, waiting to see him, because he’ll know him anywhere. He’ll know the look of Anti from the way he holds himself, the way that he’ll scan the crowd, looking for him, perhaps in intrigue, because he knows that Anti’s feelings can’t all be what he says. His acid tongue wouldn’t allow him to speak any niceties, but Dark knows better. 

The whole world stops for a moment when Dark sees him walking in.

He’s misinterpreted how much smaller McLoughlin’s frame is in comparison to his own. But it doesn’t make him any less radiant, and Dark swears his breath leaves his lungs when Anti’s eyes--eye--sweeps over him. 

Dark’s torn between the desire to punch him because he’s so beautiful and kiss him right there. Both would cause a scene, but Dark can’t bring himself to care. He’s struck with this need to be closer, to enter into his bubble, to smooth his hands over the careful edges of the other creature, mapping out every expanse of him until he’s familiar with each of his curves, where he’s sharp, where he’s soft. Dark is so suddenly struck with the need to wrap his arms around him, pull him against him, tight and unyielding, soaking in everything that’s purely Anti. He wants to dig his nails into him, feel the skin underneath his fingertips, to ensure everyone knows this beautiful creation is his and his alone. 

He wonders if Anti bleeds red. 

_Anti. Anti._

Dark steps towards him. Anti regards him with a mute expression, unmoving and betraying nothing as to what’s going on inside of him. There’s such a calmness to his demeanor, an eerie stillness that Dark wishes he could figure out. He has this desperation seeded within him, wanting to know what he’s thinking, wanting to find out what’s going on in that beautiful brain of his. 

He smiles, softly to himself, and as Anti, seemingly resigned, weaves through the sea of people exiting the plane and towards him, his lips form the words, “Anti.” 

There’s something so much more powerful about saying them in person, to his face. There’s something about the taste of the name on his lips when he’s looking at the real thing, when he’s so tangible that excites the human part of him once again. 

_Anti. Anti._

_Jack--_

He quells the other. Dark opens his arms, half expecting Anti to fall into them considering that he’s gotten him this far. In just a few more minutes, Anti will be in his house, and he realizes with a sense of childish impatience that each domino of this situation is falling into place.

But Anti’s gaze is sharp with a sense of disgust, obviously having no intention of falling into anything. 

“I see you didn’t bring the flowers,” Anti says, and his voice is so much prettier in person, so much more elegant and fluid and gorgeous. It’s almost unreal--he wouldn’t believe it if he weren’t hearing it first hand. “Seems that you’ve gotten a fraction smarter since our last conversation.”

“You didn’t think I’d show up entirely empty handed, did you?” Dark hums, and the tremors are back, the yearning to occupy every ounce of space that Anti takes up. He shifts closer to him, delighting in how Anti doesn’t shift away from him.

A quiet impasse falls over them. Neither of them move. Anti’s free eye watches him cautiously, gauging his next motion, and Dark wonders what’s hidden behind the eyepatch. He offers the plucked flower to him in a gesture of kindness, a small reserve of which he has to spare, but Anti regards it with such dissatisfaction that Dark finds it better to drop it at his feet. 

His thoughts are all over the place, confused and conflicted over the appearance of Anti in his life. He wants to kiss him, to bite into those stolen lips and taste something he’s craved since he first laid eyes on him. 

They’re incredibly close. It would be so easy for Dark to bridge the gap between them, and Anti’s already shown some interest. He knows they’re walking a fine line, a push and a pull that will take a lot of convincing to get Anti over. But still, stealing a kiss this early on in the game wouldn’t hurt--

Dark tilts his head, moving in to make the connection, when Anti’s hand reaches up and grips his neck tight, his nails sinking into his skin. 

“Do not,” Anti whispers, his eye fixated on him darkly. “I am not here to be your little fuck toy. I am _not_ here to exchange declarations of love and whispered promises I have no intentions of keeping. I am here for one goal. Do you understand?”

The sensation of Anti’s fingers pressing into his skin is exhilarating. He wonders how much farther he could push him in such a public place. The fact that he’s even grabbing him like this is suspicious, so he only smiles. “Of course, baby. Whatever you say.”

Anti’s grip on him slowly loosens, but the gaze doesn’t get any less fierce. If anything, it grows harder, more annoyed, and he spits, “You keep that attitude up and I won’t be going anywhere with you.”

“You don’t know where Fischbach lives,” Dark reminds him, without missing a beat. “It would defeat the whole purpose of you coming here.” 

Anti growls, but if anything, he knows when he’s cornered. He doesn’t address this. “Let’s go already. I’m fucking tired.” 

“I can carry you?” Dark offers, because this body can certainly handle it. He’s so much smoother, so much more confident in this body, and Anti would be a breeze to pick up. It would give him the chance to touch him more. 

“Absolutely not,” Anti fires back, shaking his head. “Get moving. I don’t want to waste another second in this shit hole.”

~~

Driving home from the airport is as wonderful as it is painful. 

Being in such an enclosed space with the love of his life and being unable to touch him is frustrating, but he takes comfort in knowing that Anti is _here_. He’s really here in LA with him and it feels like such a dream come true. 

The other doesn’t bother to make small talk with him, doesn’t bother to tell him about the flight over despite Dark knowing he hadn’t slept on it. He hides it well, but there’s a slight fatigue to Anti’s shoulders that must be due to his human shell. Dark often forgets that their bodies are uniquely mortal, and that they cannot run them into the ground, even if they themselves have infinite energy. 

“What are you thinking about?” he tries, because it fills the silence in a way that helps ease his nerves. Dark feels somewhat like a child, demanding attention from an absent parent or friend that refuses to give it to him. His irritation at being ignored only grows because ever since Anti arrived, Fischbach has been trying to worm his way to the surface, desperate to talk his green-haired lover. 

But Dark isn’t having it. Not after experiencing Anti for such a brief period. He’s spent weeks gearing himself for this moment, and he refuses to let Fischbach take it away from him. 

“Just drive,” Anti says coolly, the heat in his voice strangely absent. Dark glances over at him from the corner of his eye, and he’s tired enough that he’s actually letting his guard down a bit. Dark can feel it in his entire being from the moment they’d gotten close enough--there had been an unmistakable air of protection around him, defending himself against any advance Dark made towards him. It’s still there, but not as harsh.

Anti’s cold facade seems absent, and it’s easy for Dark to assume that it’s due to his fatigue. But Dark remains cheerfully optimistic that Anti is warming up to him, and it’s only a matter of time that these human feelings of his are reciprocated. 

~~

“It smells like dog,” Anti remarks, once he walks into the house. “Jesus Christ.” 

“Fischbach had a dog,” Dark tells him. “I haven’t seen it in a while, though. I assume it’s gone or dead. It really doesn’t matter to me.”

“I couldn’t give less of a fuck,” Anti replies. “It just smells like a dog in here.”

Dark remains quiet at that statement, not really knowing what to say, and in the void of silence between them, Anti says, “Show me what you’ve found. I want to see if you’ve got anything that I don’t.”

“Don’t you want some sleep, first?” Dark asks him, tilting his head. “You look tired, baby. You’re not going to get anything done in this state.”

Apparently, Anti doesn’t like his sweetness, because he scowls so hard Dark fears it’ll get stuck on his face. “This body has gone longer without sleep. I’ll be fine. Now show me what you’ve found and I’ll go over some of the basics for this ritual.” 

Dark thinks there’s very little that Anti knows that he doesn’t already, but he thinks that some of the sources he’s found will please the other, if nothing else. He gestures towards the stairs in a way that indicates, _you first_ , and Anti begrudgingly walks up before him. 

Anti waits on the landing, and Dark puts a hand on his back, guiding him towards the proper room, but Anti shucks off his touch as quickly as it comes. 

_JackJackJack--_

He slams his fist against the wall, effectively snuffing down the name of the poor, screaming counterpart of his beloved. Fischbach fears him, and what he’ll do inside of his skin, and he likes to reminds the other of that. It keeps him from doing stupid things like calling for a man that he’ll never speak to again.

Anti pauses, looking back at him to raise a brow. His lips pursed into an expression of exasperation, Dark smiles back at him. 

Dark is stronger than Fischbach will ever be. And the human will realize that soon. 

They enter Fischbach’s recording room, and Dark sits down in his chair to boot up the computer. Once finished, he opens a series of files and coding from the game, gesturing to the screen. 

“It’s all right here,” he drawls, bored of having to look at the same information over and over again. “To be frank, I think it’s the same things you’ve found. A lot of blood sacrifice and human chakras--”

“But we’re missing _something_ ,” Anti hisses, surprisingly fervent. “The ritual’s coding talks about something I’ve yet to decipher, and whatever it is, it’s the last piece. We have to figure it out before we start on anything.” 

“What’s the rush?” Dark comments, letting out a low sigh. “We’ve assumed total control of these skins. It’s not like Fischbach’s getting out anytime soon, and I think you’ve gotten McLoughlin under control, haven’t you? We don’t need to rush anything, Anti. We’re more likely to make a mistake that way.” 

The sharpness of Anti’s nails catch the light as he clenches his fist. 

“This body is _weak_ ,” he begins slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Maybe you’re content to live in a pathetic shell, but I, for one, am not. This body needs constant care, constant upkeep, and I’m forever aware of the fact that someone else occupies my mind. The sooner I can create a body of my own, the sooner I’ll be able to do whatever the fuck I want and not have to worry about this body deteriorating on me.” 

He pauses, as if letting Dark soak those words in, as if waiting for him to agree.

Dark smiles, instead. “If that’ll make you happy.”

~~

Anti is insistent on working well into the early morning, and it’s around 8 AM that he convinces him that his body is human and he needs to sleep. Despite Anti having gone on a very long-winded rant about how fragile his body is, he sure puts it through a lot of turmoil. 

For once, Fischbach has been quiet in his mind since the outburst in the hallway, and Dark assumes it’s because he’s finally learned his place. After seeing no change in Anti, perhaps, he’s lost some hope and Dark plans to kill every ounce of it that he may still have left. 

The mirrors in the house are all covered, and the curtains all drawn, so there’s very little sunlight filtering into the room when Anti crawls into the bed. He doesn’t bother to change out of his clothes.

“Did you want something more comfortable to sleep in?” Dark asks, because nothing feels right about not asking. He wants Anti to be as comfortable in the flesh prison as he can, and in order to do that, he has to cater to its desires.

“Shut up,” Anti says in response. “Do not wake me up.” 

He closes his eyes, and Dark thinks he’s so pretty like that, so much more relaxed. He loves Anti no matter how he looks, but there’s something nicer about the way his face softens just a bit, like he’s finally letting that tough-guy exterior crumble. 

Dark begins to settle in next to him when Anti hisses, without turning to him, “What are you doing?” 

“Sleeping?” Dark murmurs, and the fatigue in his own body begins to catch up with him. He hasn’t slept much since realizing Anti would be arriving sooner than expected, and he’s in sore need of it, unfortunately.

“Not with me you aren’t,” Anti’s voice drips with venom, so matter-of-fact that Dark almost laughs at his conviction. 

“Relax, Anti,” he hums, and wraps his arms around the other, pulling him against him. “I’ll be good.”

The other’s fingers are on him immediately, sinking in, scraping along his flesh. He does a very good job of trying to get out of his grip, and maybe if Dark was a normal human, he might have let go. But Anti feels good against him, enveloped in him, and it sends a course of electricity throughout him. 

He could very easily get used to this.

At some point, he doesn’t know when, Anti stops struggling, perhaps realizing that Dark has no intention of letting go. He deflates, in what Dark assumes to be exhaustion, and goes still.

His human form demands sleep, and Dark follows him shortly after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying to get better about answering comments (Quin too!), but even if we don't answer you, know that we squeal about your sweet comments in our skype conversations. They really mean a lot to us.
> 
>  **[Edit]** This awesome piece has broken 40k! :D


	12. i'm not good with directions and i hide behind my mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm a pro at imperfections and I'm best friends with my doubt,  
> And now that my mind's out, and now I hear it clear and loud,  
> I'm thinking, "Wow, I probably shoulda stayed inside my house."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient with us still. We're trying to be as consistent as possible with this story, but I've been out of town since Thursday and haven't had consistent internet access until now. Once again, the tone of these chapters is definitely taking a turn, so I hope you all still enjoy how things are going. Don't worry, the horror/romance aren't gone and neither are Mark and Jack. 
> 
> Title and Summary are from The Judge by Twenty One Pilots

"Do you not actually believe in sleep?”

Anti spares the doorway a passing glance, then goes back to reading without so much as a raised eyebrow in Dark’s direction. Dark doesn’t wait for him to respond.

“It’s almost three in the morning and you haven’t slept once since the night before last,” he’s tired, accusing. There’s movement out of the corner of Anti’s functioning eye, but it’s not threatening so he doesn’t care to look again.

He’s sitting on the oak wood dining table, legs crossed and forked tongue poking out of his mouth absentmindedly, elbow deep in the printouts he and Dark had pooled together just yesterday after waking up.

If there’s one thing Anti’s good at, it’s being organized, and he’s been outlining the translated details of the ritual for as long as he’s been able to keep his eyes open. That is—for as long as Dark has managed to leave him alone about doing something other than staring at an ocean of computer paper for over twenty four hours.

He’s made good progress so far, but the secrets hidden in the game code are less of a recipe for devil magic and more of an abridged summary of the process, cheekily prodding him in the direction of searching for outside sources whether he wants to or not.

A hand appears out of nowhere, swiftly plucking the paper from his fingers and tossing it amongst the stacks of other messily scribbled theories surrounding his hunched form. Anti hisses, ready to swipe in the direction of the offending arm, but his reflexes are slowed by a lack of sleep and the same hand from before locks around his wrist with little effort.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Dark’s words are concerned but his tone is smug and thick with something that hints he’d be just as content to see the opposite. “You’re getting slow on me already.”

“I’m still faster than you,” Anti says, tongue scalding. He pointedly doesn’t look at the way Dark’s holding his arm in a vice grip above his own head.

“Not when you’re sleep deprived and preoccupied with reading useless documents you’ve practically memorized.” Dark shakes his head like he’s a disappointed mother, and Anti’s wrist jerks in his hold. It only serves to make Dark’s grip tighten enough to warn of more drastic measures. “Besides, we both know that I’m stronger.”

 “Fuck you,” is Anti’s creative reply, because it’s too late to fight and he’d rather Dark never touch him again. “Let me go. Now.”

“Are you gonna quit running yourself into the ground and come to bed with me, or are you gonna keep being an overcompensating asshole?” For all that he looks like an incredibly bulked up five year old whose sleep was just interrupted, Dark’s tone brooks no argument. If he wanted to, he could drag Anti like a doll across his host’s hardwood floors and suffer nothing for it.

“I’ll think about it.” Anti isn’t going to admit that sleep sounded pretty damn awesome sometime after the sun had set around him hours ago, because he’s got his pride and he doesn’t really do cooperation unless he’s the one proposing it. “Maybe a bit more seriously if you’d get your grubby fucking paws off of me, thanks.”

Dark just stares at him, and it’s disturbingly hollow. Anti squirms in place, the feeling like Dark’s picturing all his insides on his outsides suddenly infiltrating his thoughts.

“I want to sleep,” Dark says, stiff as a board. “If I don’t sleep, I don’t feel well, and if I don’t feel well then I’m not going to have a very good day.” He says it like he means something else, and Anti imagines that Dark won’t be the only one having a rough day tomorrow if he doesn’t comply.  

“I can’t sleep without you, so if you’d like to do us both a favor and cut out all the drama, you should probably come to bed now.” Everything is very quiet, except for the ticking of the clock and the thump of Anti’s pulse in his shackled wrist. Dark’s gaze pins him in place on the tabletop.

“Fine,” Anti swallows and jerks his wrist again, this time with success as Dark abruptly drops his arm like it’s made of lead. “Just let me clean this up and I’ll come to bed—you think you can allow that, maybe?”

“Don’t be long.” Dark rumbles in his face and turns away silently, muscles shifting underneath his black t-shirt. Anti thinks he must be the most dangerous child ever to walk the earth.

It’s equally childish that Anti considers dragging out his tidying up before joining Dark, just to see what’ll happen, but there’s a tiny part of his brain dedicated to self-preservation that’s just loud enough to convince him that it’s a bad idea. He makes quick work of the sea of papers he’s been voluntarily swimming in for hours, and bids the whole mess goodnight.

Dark’s tangled in the sheets, one arm resting across the bare space next to him as he breathes steadily on his own, but Anti’s not fooled into thinking he’s actually asleep. Dark had lingered around Anti last night, helping him work out the finer details of the encrypted text and catching bits of sleep in the debatably comfortable dining chairs as the night had worn on. He’s made the claim more than once over the past couple of days that he can’t sleep alone now that he knows Anti’s here, and whether that’s true or not it doesn’t seem to matter.

Anti has no interest in sharing a sleeping space with Dark for any extended period of time, and once they have to leave Fischbach’s house he’s going to have to put a stop to it altogether. For now though, he’s too tired to do anything but crumble into the bed beside Dark’s shadowed, inviting form.

The moment his back hits the sheets, Dark’s sliding into place next to him like he’s been waiting for an excuse to touch Anti all day, and now he’s finally being rewarded.

“Did you find anything back there?” Dark asks, warm and weary against his neck like he wasn’t just doing an impeccable impersonation of a deadly ice sculpture five minutes ago. “You get such a bad case of tunnel vision whenever you’re all worked up about something.”

Anti would ask Dark if he’s looked in a mirror lately, seeing as how he’s pretty sure his obsessive tendencies aren’t nearly as problem-intense as Dark’s, but he imagines the remark would fall very flat.

“I know enough to know that we shouldn’t plan to stay here for long,” he replies, trying to worm his way into the most comfortable position he can manage without Dark noticing the millimeters of space he’s putting between them. “Whoever wrote out this spell wanted the caster to work for it, and I guess that means we’re going to have to take a trip.”

Dark blows out a breath that’s probably supposed to sound interested but mostly just serves to prick up a smattering of goosebumps on Anti’s bare neck.

“A road trip?” he asks blearily, thumb stroking the cloth covering Anti’s ribs. “Are you taking me on an adventure?”

Anti scoffs, and nearly bites his tongue in an effort not to grab Dark’s fingers where they’re tracing the bones beneath his chest.

“You’re following me onto the road to find the answers to my questions and the ingredients we need to make the spell work for us,” he corrects Dark, catching himself on a yawn. It’s hard to be appropriately surly when your human body is shutting down on you. “I’m not taking you anywhere, and it’s not a road trip, it’s an expedition. We aren’t best buds hitting the road for a couple of laughs.”

Dark snuffles, already dancing with sleep as he listens to Anti’s lecturing, and it’s giving Anti a humongous case of whiplash to see him acting so innocent all of a sudden. Dark’s rampant, unpredictable mood swings are the scariest thing about him.

“It’ll still be fun,” Dark insists, and the lips touching Anti’s skin aren’t really offering a kiss, but they’re close enough to wipe any thoughts of instant sleep from his head. “As long as we’re together I’ll be happy enough.”

Anti wants to tell him how much he doesn’t care, but Dark goes silent after that, and his breathing evens out remarkably fast.

He leaves Anti to stare blankly at the ceiling, arms full of Dark’s sleeping form and a plan slowly assembling itself in his head. Dark’s skin is soft beneath his fingers, warm and present, a solid constant. Anti ignores the way Dark’s heavy weight against him acts like a security blanket, the only thing he’s sure of at the moment.

He falls asleep without realizing it, mind slipping from thought in a slow slide of exhaustion and shared warmth.

-.-

Dark’s up before him the next morning, and Anti finds him sitting in the kitchen scribbling away on the small stack of undeciphered code Anti’s yet to be able to tackle properly.

“Do you know something I don’t?” Anti asks, making his way towards the coffee pot that’s already hot and bubbling at him from across the room. There are few human luxuries that are of any use to him, and coffee is very near the top of that list. “There was a section of the encrypted text that was more heavily coded than the rest, and I have no idea how to crack it.”

Dark slides a piece of paper in his direction without so much as glancing away from his work, and Anti raises one eyebrow, examining it for himself. The immediate role reversal from last night is almost comical.

Dark’s been writing in red pen, a stark contrast to the messy black curls of Anti’s handwriting, and his findings are much more legibly written than Anti had expected to see from him. He wonders how Dark obtained this level of code cracking skill in such a short time—Anti’s own abilities are average at best.

It’s only a third of the passage Anti hadn’t been able to understand, but it’s enough. Previous parts had made mention of the seven chakras of the body and the blood sacrifices separately, but this passage combines the two into something resembling an actual set of instructions.

It’s still the bare bones, nothing as fleshed out as he’d hoped to find or any guarantee of final results, but it’s more complete than the obscure rambling he’s uncovered over the past week.

“We need to kill seven people,” Anti says it aloud, more to himself than to Dark, and Dark nods with a morbid amount of early morning enthusiasm.

“There’re more to it though,” he says through a mouthful of something suspiciously chocolate covered. “It can’t be just any seven people—they have to embody very specific traits in order for the ritual to work.”

“One for each of the seven chakras?”

Dark nods again, and shoves the paper he’s been boring holes into at Anti’s face, still chowing down on something distinctly not breakfast-appropriate.

“We need a different organ from each person, one that matches the placement of the chakra in the human body, but the people we choose have to be similar in temperament to the corresponding chakras as well.”

Anti skims over what information he can easily cram in his head. Every chakra seems to be associated both with specific parts of the human body and various emotional, physical, and spiritual traits. He’s not familiar with any of it at all.

“So if we needed a human to satisfy the throat chakra, we’d have to cut off their ears and make sure they were ‘articulate and creative’?” It seems simple enough in theory to harvest the organs, but finding people who actually embody certain traits in a short amount of time looks more than a little daunting.

“Basically.” Dark wrinkles his nose a little. “The necessary qualifications are twofold, so we have to choose carefully or the bodies the ritual creates will only be half functional.”

Anti groans and leans up against the counter. “Is this all there is? How do we know if we’ve found someone satisfactory enough to fulfill each category?”

Dark shrugs and licks his fingers, smacking as he goes.

“I guess we just need to be extremely picky about who we choose if we don’t wanna end up with a body that’s missing an arm or a leg of part of a brain,” he gestures towards a folded set of papers to the right of his elbow. “I got most of your untranslated stuff figured out, although it recommends further reading for a ‘more successful casting’.”

Anti’s response is an unimpressed hum, as the idea of having to track down any more reading material feels less like progress and more like torture.

“I’m not renting out an entire fucking library if I don’t need to,” he scowls, folding the rest of the papers in half and tossing them back onto the kitchen table. “If we’ve got a complete list of ingredients and a detailed ritual description to go on, then that’s good enough for me. None of this supplementary reading bullshit.”

“You’re getting impatient again, love.” Dark stands up from his chair and drops his pen with a satisfied _clack_ on the tabletop. “You’re supposed to be the levelheaded one, remember?”

Anti rolls his eyes and pours himself a cup of coffee, too lazy to go to the fridge and hunt down any creamer. “Says who?”

Dark grins, all bright teeth and morning roughage in his voice. “Says you apparently. You’re the one always telling me to shut up and be patient, so I figured you must have endurance in spades.”

That’s not exactly true, but Anti doesn’t correct him for once. It’s fun letting Dark get things wrong sometimes.

“We need to head out as soon as possible.” He changes the subject before either of them can get too comfortable with the domesticity of slowly waking up together. “If we try to collect all seven victims in the same area, people are going to take notice pretty quickly.”

Dark steals a sip of Anti’s coffee, and yelps when Anti swats at him, the splash of hot liquid leaving a red mark on his forearm.

“We actually need fourteen victims,” Dark tells him moodily, rubbing his wounded arm. He just looks like he’s pouting, so Anti ignores his attitude in favor of considering their rising potential body count. “The recipe for organs has to be ‘doubled’ since there are two of us, and we need a mirror each to create templates for both bodies. This is some complicated shit you’re getting us into.”

Anti sinks back a little further into the hard marble countertops and crosses his arms, still sipping his coffee protectively. It’s looking more and more like this won’t be a short term thing—the time he and Dark are going to have to spend together making this happen. They’ve each got an incredibly specific hit list to satisfy, and Dark’s hasn’t even elaborated on whether or not the ritual has to take place under a full moon or in a graveyard or something else incredibly cliché.

“I wanna be out of here by tomorrow morning,” he says, staring at the papers littered across the tabletop, the only evidence of all their hard work so far. “We can hit the road in Fischbach’s car and knock out this list as we go, but I’m not sitting around here playing house with you any longer than I have to.”

Dark shakes his head and rests his chin on Anti’s shoulder.

“We can start in small towns if you want, somewhere it’s easy to snatch people without getting caught,” he offers, arms snaking around Anti’s upper body. “I’ll bet it’s easy enough to steal organs from people in places where the locals don’t believe in tight security.”

Anti’s not particularly attached to any one state or another, seeing as he knows very little about the geography of America as a whole, but small towns seem like less work than big cities as a whole. He’s got no problem handing all the navigational responsibilities to Dark if it means there’s one less thing for him to worry about.

“Whatever,” he murmurs, skin itching. The dark fingers of claustrophobia are creeping up on him, tapping their way up his spine towards his neck, and he needs to get out of this house. Staying in one place for too long feels wrong, like he’s putting down human roots in a human body he doesn’t belong in.

Dark kisses his cheek, so fast Anti barely has time to shove him out of the way, and then he’s peeling himself away from Anti’s side, heading for the doorway.

“I’ll go pack the car,” he calls, waving carelessly behind him. “Drink your coffee, read the ritual over again, whatever you need. We can be out of here by tonight if you really want—no sense in waiting for tomorrow.”

Anti downs the rest of his coffee, but he doesn’t linger in the kitchen any longer. He can read the rest of their findings once they get in the car, but for now he’s not above helping Dark get them on the fast track to making progress.

-.-

Anti sighs and scrubs a hand across his face, resisting the urge to break the hotel’s bathroom mirror instead of simply covering it. McLoughlin’s conscious and unconscious mind is surprisingly resilient, and the constant screaming is making his metaphorical ears bleed.

The worst thing about sharing a stolen body is that it’s impossible to go hoarse while shouting inside someone’s head. As a result, Jack has been absolutely wrecking his psyche all damn day, his beleaguered shouting grinding away slowly at Anti’s patience until it’s wire-thin and poised to snap.

Dark isn’t helping.

It’s only day two of their expedition and he’s utterly plastered himself to Anti’s side, refusing to shut his fucking yap ever since they’d climbed into the car barely forty eight hours ago. The constant stream of commentary is already making him regret ever asking for Dark’s help in the first place, because now he has two people yelling at him twenty four/seven and there’s fuck all that he can do to make it stop.

He glances at the ceiling and scoffs at the smoke alarm blinking innocuously at him in the corner. Fuck.

They’re somewhere in northern California, and he’d told Dark to book them a room that didn’t ban smoking, and that was likely to be secluded from the rest of the hotel guests, but judging by the scuffling coming from next door neither of those things were at all accomplished.

Anti stares at the glass balcony doors from across the room and considers his options. He’s not particularly worried about having to pay for damages to hotel property, but he also doesn’t need the added harassment of people knocking on his door complaining about the smell of smoke. The room they’ve booked is in a respectable area by his request, because if Fischbach and McLoughlin have nearly bottomless bank accounts then he isn’t going to bother slumming it in a Motel 8.

Smoking on the balcony it is, then.

His internal tirade is interrupted by Dark striding through the doorway with a bag slung across his shoulder, clapping his hands excitedly.

“Did you know there’s a pool on the roof of this building?” he asks giddily, unshouldering the bag and tossing it to the floor. “We can go swimming late at night while everyone’s asleep and I’ll even bring the cocktail shaker! It’s been ages since I’ve had a real vacation.”

Anti rolls his eyes, shoulders set back in the most indignant fashion he can manage.

“You’ve never been on a vacation, you twat,” he scoffs dismissively. “And the only reason I’d ever go swimming with ye is so I could drown your useless ass without anyone realizing it ‘til the morning.”

Dark shrugs like all of that is absolutely inconsequential to him.

“You’d never drown me, darling,” he purrs in that frustratingly immaculate baritone of his. “You need me, remember? Besides, I’d make it certain you were too distracted for the thought to ever cross your mind.”

Anti doesn’t want to actually know what that means. “Shut up,” he retorts, too annoyed to think of anything wittier. He turns and points to the king sized bed sitting ominously in the middle of the room. “What the fuck is this?”

Dark is absolutely nowhere near as innocent in mind as he actually looks, and somehow that only rattles Anti more on the inside.

“You didn’t really think I was gonna get us two separate beds, did you?” Dark’s mouth quirks to the side in time with the rise of his left eyebrow. “You should know by now that I won’t sleep well without you.”

Anti stares at him. “This was not part of the fucking deal,” he hisses, waving his hands at the offending bed. “I never agreed to cozying up to you in hotel rooms while you have your way with my unconscious body in the middle of the night. We’re switching rooms, _now_.”

Dark frowns, and Anti has exactly a full second to think on his words before Dark’s got him against the wall, knife flush to his throat and eyes flickering dangerously.

Dark is slow to grin, expression deceptively calm, and Anti grits his teeth, eyes closing on instinct as Dark leans in to kiss him sweetly. His lips are soft, and his free hand cups Anti’s cheek like the other one isn’t threatening to slit his throat in the space of a single breath. Dark’s frame is bigger, not in height but in bulk, and he boxes Anti in with his shoulders and hips, shamelessly creating friction between their lower bodies.

“I don’t recall,” Dark murmurs into his mouth, edge of the blade pricking at the quivering flesh of Anti’s neck. “Ever planning on giving you a choice.”

He rubs their noses together, smiling like he’s confessing sticky sweet emotions instead of playing with fire, and grips Anti’s jaw so tight the demon can feel his own bones pop.

“I think I’d prefer it if you stopped making it so hard for me to seduce you.” Dark’s words are thin and stilted behind the angry gravel of his voice, and Anti can’t suppress a shiver. This is by far the most entertaining Dark’s been in the short time they’ve known each other.

“I’d prefer it if you’d stop pretending I care,” Anti sneers, because he doesn’t really. As interesting as it is to see Dark try and live up to his own name, he’d rather be having a smoke right now in complete silence. Preferably alone.

To his surprise, Dark doesn’t get angrier but instead backs off a bit, loosening his hold and returning to stroking Anti’s cheek gently with his thumb.

“Denial is the first stepping stone into eventual acceptance,” he says like someone’s tapping out the contents of a fortune cookie onto his tongue. “I can wait for you, so long as I know you’ll let me reap my rewards in the end.”

He pets Anti’s face for a moment more, then sheaths the knife in the time it takes to blink, planting another kiss on the shorter man’s scowling mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as though ‘apology’ is even a word that exists in Dark’s personal dictionary. Anti doesn’t believe that it is. “I’ll order you room service and disable the smoke alarm so you can smoke in bed. You need the rest.”

Anti shoves at him, clearing away the last bit of contact in semi-disgust. Prolonged ‘human’ touch of any kind stirs up uncomfortable feelings inside of him, and there’s an acid flavor in the back of his mouth, burning at his esophagus. He recognizes it as the pitiful attempts of McLoughlin to wrench control back in what he’d thought was a moment of weakness for Anti.

_‘Should have realized I’m not like you, little wasp, **’**_ he grunts somewhere into the recesses of the human’s brain. _‘I don’t love him the way you love his host.’_

McLoughlin is silent for the first time in days, and only the distant thrum of loneliness lets Anti know he’s not been abandoned just yet.

He kicks off his shoes, ignoring both of Dark’s earlier offers, and plugs McLoughlin’s phone (its entire directory blocked and cleared just to be safe) into the nightstand outlet, leaving Dark to take the side by the bare wall.

It’s petty and hardly tantamount to the violence he’d usually be willing to counteract Dark’s attitude with, but his muscles are hurting and Anti still needs sleep for a few hours at least.

Dark picks up the phone and orders him a plate of something incredibly unhealthy sounding, like they’re an everyday couple wasting their life on hollow luxuries like hotel food delivery on demand. The mediocrity of it all makes him slightly ill.

The next twenty minutes or so pass in near silence, save for Dark fumbling around on the mattress like a fucking idiot, standing on his tiptoes to unscrew and disable the smoke alarm with the same blade he’d used to threaten Anti just minutes earlier.

Anti resolutely ignores him, even after his triumphant squeal of joy when the thing finally stops blinking.

He falls into a haze of something that borders between sleep and confusion, vaguely aware that he’d forgotten to cover the bathroom mirror when they’d first arrived, and hopes Dark will realize before doing something incredibly stupid.

Time passes without his participation or attention, and he wakes to a rough hand in his hair, simulating something close to a gentle stroke.

“Food’s here, love,” Dark tells him, and Anti grimaces in return.

“The fuck’d you get me?” he mumbles, eyes half closed. Dark chuckles, then yanks hard enough to rip on the hair beneath his fingers.

“Wake the hell up and find out for yourself,” he says, narrowly dodging the angry swat from Anti’s direction. “I’m not gonna fucking spoon feed you.”

Anti growls, only half-intimidating because he’s still groggy from having to adjust to sleeping on his own in this body, and because Dark’s got the market cornered on terrifying throat noises.

“If you tried I’d ram the fork straight into your ear canal.” He settles for empty threats and inspects the plate next to the bed. Roast beef and vegetables.

Dark grins at him across the dimly lit room, smile razor sharp and dreadful.

“Don’t get me excited now,” he says, shrugging out of his jeans haphazardly. “I was just getting used to being pissed off at you for forgetting to cover up the goddamn mirror.”

Anti lights a cigarette, because he really does deserve it.

“Quit your bitchin’,” he replies lazily. He’ll make time to be angry tomorrow. “I’m after having enough of hearing your voice in me ears all day. Put up or shut up.”

Dark crawls into bed next to him, sliding close and picking carrots idly off of Anti’s plate while he eats and smokes at the same time. Everything is still while they both watch the smoke curl from Anti’s lips as it dissolves into the murky evening air.

“I really do love you.” Dark breaks into the silence so casually his words would seem dishonest were it not for his quiet tone. He’s inches away from Anti’s arm, head resting on the mountain of pillows as he gazes up towards Anti beside him.

Anti regards him coolly, blowing another long stream of smoke towards Dark’s deceptively prone form, and shakes his head.

“You’ll be bored of me within the month, ye will,” he replies, unflustered. “I know how your kind works.”

Dark’s eyes are treacherous, and Anti can’t meet them anymore after a few seconds.

“I don’t get bored of being in love,” Dark says after the silence has lingered and festered in the air between them. “Only of not being loved back. That’s one thing you should know about me.”

The cigarette is a nub in Anti’s fingers and he lights another before stubbing it out on the wood of the nightstand next to him. He sets the plate aside and settles back into the sheets, smoke dancing in the back of his throat as Dark’s gaze burns holes into the side of his body.

“Then I doubt you’ll be entertained by me for very long,” is all he says in return, ignoring the soft touch of Dark’s fingertips on his arm.

The immediate silence condemns him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and being understanding. I'm sorry this chapter lacked both Mark and Jack and actual horror elements, but those will definitely return no matter what. I promise this isn't just a fucked up road trip AU.
> 
> ALSO, we used the seven chakras in this fic in order to better explain the spell we worked out for the fic, and we don't intend to be offensive in any way to people who regularly participate or subscribe to these beliefs. If using the concept is offensive, please let us know and we will adjust accordingly.
> 
> If you'd like to learn a bit more about the seven chakras, [here](http://projectinnerpeace.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/Chakra-Chart2.jpg) is a link to a chart explaining them.


	13. let's start with the truth ('cause it gets you in the end)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't leave me hangin',  
> I'm coming for you, I'm coming for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Quin and I keep saying it, but we seriously mean it--thanks so much for being patient with us and our irregular updating schedule. It seems something always comes up for one of us, but if nothing else, we'll be updating twice a week for you guys. 
> 
> The support for this story has been crazy, and we're so thrilled by the positive response. It's been so fun writing this and we're so glad you all love it. Your comments and kudos and all manners of appreciation mean so much to us. 
> 
> That said, we'll get to this chapter. Please enjoy!
> 
> Title chapter and summary are from "Hangin'" by Bastille.

He’s been a prisoner in his own body for quite some time. 

Mark hasn’t been able to wrench even the slightest bit of control from Dark since his initial takeover. He’s watched the creature paw and snuggle up to the thing in Jack’s body, hanging onto his every word like he’d die without it. Sometimes the sick thoughts Dark has, Mark is able to hear, and they send shudders through him, disgusting enough to make him pity “Anti” briefly. 

He’s long given up his hope that all of this is a bad dream. Since spilling blood for the first time, Mark has been aware that the sensations are too real. He can feel _everything_ \--he wonders if that’s Dark, playing a wicked game with him, allowing him to experience the torment of ripping into another human being, of tearing into skin and muscle and feeling warm blood against his fingertips. He wonders if Dark is letting him experience it and taking pleasure knowing Mark can do nothing to stop a body that was once his. 

It’s not anymore, though. Dark has made it clear to him that his body is no longer his own, as much as he hates it. Despite the skin being too fragile, too delicate for whatever things Dark has planned, he still hangs onto it with an iron grip, locking Mark out from any source of control. He feels encumbered, restrained with a mental strait jacket as he watches his body move of Dark’s volition. 

Mark knows something bad is just over the horizon. The hurried scrawls, the careful whispers, the nonsensical coding--something evil awaits all of them, and Mark doesn’t want to wait around for it. Dark and Anti--out on their own, in bodies capable of housing them--who knows what they could accomplish? Mark hasn’t seen Anti in action, but it can’t be pretty, and he knows all too well what Dark can do with his hands. 

As it stands, their shells compress them. It keeps them from wreaking too much havoc. But it won’t forever. If Anti’s impatience is anything to go by, it won’t be long. 

He has to get back control. 

~~

Fischbach has been oddly silent in his mind.

Dark considers it a win, however, assuming that the bitch has finally accepted his place as a spectator in the grand scheme, having to wait idly by while his hands are used for tasks more gruesome than he’d ever thought possible.

But in Fischbach’s absence, which is blissfully welcome, Anti has recoiled from him even more. The other creature had never been open with him, but since their tussle in the hotel room their first night, it seems he’s even more drawn into himself, communicating with him seldomly. Dark can’t count how many cigarettes the fucker has gone through, only how many cartons he’s gone out and bought for him in a half-hearted attempt to please the unpleasable. 

He mulls over his words, and in some ways, he believes himself. He’ll never tire of loving Anti--there’s so much of him to understand, so many complexities in his form, so many quirks and tics that he’s yet to discover. Dark wants to learn every inch of him, every inch of the real him, the part of him that’s Anti, not McLoughlin. He knows that Anti wears McLoughlin’s skin, so distinguishing what’s McLoughlin’s and what’s Anti’s would be difficult to the untrained eye, but their mannerisms are so different to Dark. Where McLoughlin had been clumsy, uncareful, unsure, Anti remained the opposite. A stark contrast, the picturesque image of everything he’d ever really wanted in his short existence. 

But Dark grows bored of this game. Anti tears emotions from him, teasing him in ways that hint at something more, before he rips it away from him. He thinks maybe this is Anti’s idea of fun--watching how far he can drag Dark’s human heart through the dirt before he gets fed up with it. 

Anti needs to get better at this game, if he insists on playing it. Playing the same tune, doing the same dance, rejecting him in all the same ways--it’s growing frustrating with each passing minute, and Dark doesn’t have time for petty annoyances. Anti can pretend all he wants that he doesn’t love him, and maybe he thinks he’s telling the truth, but he reached out first. It’s only a matter of time. 

They could have so much more fun if Anti would give into him. He thinks of how often he would kiss Anti if he didn’t have to steal the ones he does get from him every time. He thinks of how often they could enjoy their new freedom if Anti wouldn’t be so fucking stubborn, denying feelings Dark knows he has. 

But for Anti, there are more important things at hand. For the first chakra, they’ll be looking for someone to fulfill _security_ , the base of the spine, and Dark is eager to explore what that could entail for him. The ritual is clear in its meaning of what they need, but how to go about it is another story. 

After all, they only need one part of the body.

Dark is more than excited to test out the strength of these limbs. He’s killed in them once before, but that had been in something less sinister, when his mind had been clouded by frustrations of his favorite co-conspirator. He’s never been fully able to gauge how this body can rip, tear, and maim. 

He’s thrilled, thinking of what kind of blood these hands will become stained in. All manners of blood. Children, teenagers, men and women--he wonders if any of them will bleed differently, or if they’ll all bleed the same.

One thing is for certain, though. They’ll all scream. 

~~

When Dark wakes, there’s a suspicious lack of warmth next to him. 

He supposes after holding a knife to his neck, Dark wouldn’t want to lay next to himself either. But that had never been an issue before. 

A quick glance to the nightstand tells him that Anti’s out smoking again on the balcony. He could easily smoke in the hotel room now that he’s disabled the smoke alarm, but Anti must want his peace. As if he’s abhorrent and in need of quiet time. He wonders how long Anti’s been out there, but if the coolness of his side of the bed is anything to go off of, it’s been a while. 

On cue, the door to the balcony slides open and Anti reenters, and Dark hears a crinkling that sounds like the cigarette pack being crushed. He’d bought that for Anti not too long ago. Dark presumes that he’s anxious about something. 

“I see you finally woke up,” Anti says, walking by without looking at him. “I was going to pour scalding coffee on you, but that’s a waste of perfectly good caffeine.” 

He says it so casually that Dark can’t help but laugh, because nothing in all his time knowing Anti has ever been casual. It’s the closest thing to a normal conversation he’s ever had with him. 

“You left me,” Dark purrs, slowly pulling himself out of bed. “I told you I couldn’t sleep without you.”

“You seemed to be sleeping just fine for the hour I was gone,” Anti fires back from the kitchen. 

The other pours himself a cup of coffee, and Dark watches the way he meticulously puts two sugar packets into it, stirring it around. A fondness pangs in his chest, but it isn’t his. 

Dark grimaces. The whispers of Fischbach in his mind indicate something he refuses to even acknowledge.

_Jack takes his coffee like that._

“Quit staring at me,” Anti drawls, a sharp bite to his words. “I want to drink my coffee in peace.” 

Dark wants to say that him gazing upon his features isn’t disturbing whatever peace he’s concocted at all, but he keeps it to himself. Anti takes a sip of the beverage, and Dark is inclined to look away, just to quell the simpering bitch inside of him. He squashes down whatever taste he feels in the back of his throat, reminding him who is in charge. 

Anti’s taste will be similar to McLoughlin, that’s undeniable, considering they share one body. But there is nothing about McLoughlin that is any stronger, any bit better than Anti. He makes sure Fischbach is well aware of that. 

Dark approaches the counter and pours himself a cup before gazing over the notes Anti had made before he’d awoken. They’re strewn about the little table in the middle of the kitchen, a haphazard string of unintelligible mess to anyone looking. 

“We should get started soon,” Anti says, breaking the silence between them. “These organs aren’t going to harvest themselves. I’m already eager to remove myself from this flesh prison. The sooner, the better.”

“Patience,” Dark admonishes, and delights in the way Anti’s good eye flickers in annoyance. Sometimes it’s fun to rile him up. “We still need to figure out fully what we’re looking for. Some further research, I think, could be useful.” 

“The ritual calls for seven chakras, and the first is security, survival, and simplicity, at the base of the spine,” Anti recites, as though he’s ingrained this information into his brain. Perhaps he has. “This requires a person who takes care of themselves and others, as well as a desire for self-preservation. I don’t see what else there is to know.” 

Dark scans the few pages of notes that Anti has made since he’d last looked at them. “Love, as much as I’m ready to go and tear out someone’s spine, I still think we should at least look into figuring out where we’re going to keep these pretty things without being caught, yeah?” 

Anti scoffs, but doesn’t disagree with him, so he figures that’s the closest he’s ever going to get to Anti agreeing with him. 

“What I mean is,” the other says. “We should start figuring out potential candidates. We have to be _extremely_ picky, otherwise this is just a pointless bloodbath.”

“I could get on board with that,” Dark hums, offering Anti the sweetest smile he can muster up, not missing the way that Anti wrinkles his nose, clearly displeased with his statement. 

But he means that. The things Dark could do now that he’s tangible, and not just a voice whispering into the ear of a spineless man. The possibilities are nearly endless, limited only by how _mortal_ this shell is. But even then, limits can be surpassed. 

He wonders if Anti will understand, if he were to explain it. Dark wonders if Anti dreams of the same things, peeling away layers of skin fleck by fleck, ripping off nails and cutting fingers off one by one. He’s curious as to whether or not Anti dreams of hacking people to bloody pieces, or if he’s more methodical, more determined to milk the kill for everything its worth. 

“I think we can at least start scoping people out,” Dark says slowly, as if placating him, because he’s a child who doesn’t understand waiting. “Better to start early and all that, right, darling?” 

Dark thinks it’s funny that for someone who had preached patience to him as though it were his only saving grace, Anti has a surprising lack of it. 

“It’s like you don’t want your tongue,” Anti drawls, taking another long swig of his coffee. “I don’t need your rotting mouth for you to be useful. I’m not your love, darling, or any other sickening endearment you keep rattling off.” 

“Of course, sugar, whatever you say,” Dark snickers, and the coffee dumped all over the front of his shirt is worth it. 

~~

Sometimes, when Dark sleeps, Mark can sort of feel himself. 

Never enough to get control back, but a slight sensation that lets him know there’s a chance. It’s a reminder that not all hope is lost, and that his body is still somewhat his own. 

Sometimes Mark thinks that’s due to Jack, the only thought crossing his mind since all of this began. It’s been his grounding force, his sense of reality, his reminder that he isn’t alone in all of this. There is someone else fighting just as hard to stay alive. 

Mark has all but confirmed now that the mirror is his way to switch back. He’d never once truly lost control of himself without looking the beast--Dark--in the eye. Dark could only persuade him up until that point, could only break down his defenses and create something in his mind that was untrue. But the fact that all the mirrors are covered, and that him and Anti both refuse to look in any sort of reflective surface, he knows it’s his ticket. 

He’s got to catch Dark off guard. He’s got to catch Dark in a moment of weakness, and try and force his way out. Even if it’s just for a few seconds, he’s got to be able to do it. A few seconds could turn into a few minutes, which could turn into more.

Dark infiltrated his body, bit by bit. There’s no reason Mark can’t do it back. 

~~

He could look at Anti forever and never get tired of him. 

Sometimes, Dark thinks Anti is only peaceful when he sleeps. There’s a certain sharpness to harnessing a body that isn’t yours, and Dark can tell McLoughlin puts up more of a fight. He’s beaten Fischbach down into a subservient, whimpering enigma that occasionally crops up in his mind, but McLoughlin is fighting Anti, tooth and nail. 

That being evident, when Anti sleeps, it’s like all has shut down. The fighting comes to a halt, a temporary armistice that smoothes out any of the cracks and bumps, making him seem like one, whole, complete person. 

Anti’s one true desire is to have a body of his own, a house made for him and no one else but him. Dark finds that to be beautiful about him. A singular goal that he will stop at nothing to achieve. 

Dark wants him to have it. He’s sure he would kill every last person in the world, gladly, to give it to him. 

“I don’t want to know how long you’ve been staring at me,” Anti grumbles, and suddenly the ferocity is back, the peacefulness of his slumber wiped away in an instant. “Or what you did to my unconscious body while I slept. Don’t tell me.”

“I was good,” Dark pouts, brushing his fingers along Anti’s shoulder. “I can’t believe you think I’d do something to you in your sleep. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

He feels Anti stiffen a fraction at the touch, not even bothering to respond as he emits a sound similar to a growl. Dark leans over him, smiling, murmuring, “Do I get a reward for being good?” 

Without waiting for an answer, he leans down to kiss him, but before he can make contact Anti practically rolls off the bed, hitting the floor with a soft thump. A second later, he stands up.

“Your reward is me not stabbing you in the throat,” Anti says, dusting himself off. He makes it a point to scowl at him, indicating his disapproval. “Shut up, and get up. We’ve got to get started on this or we’ll never get anywhere. We’ve got our baseline, we’ve got the details we need to know for now, and we’ve got the means to do it.” 

Dark sighs, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he slides out of bed, stalking around it to stand before the other. He’s bigger than Anti, not in height but in definition, broader in frame. He’s not above using Fischbach’s size to get what he wants. 

Anti shifts to walk around him, obviously not intimidated by any means, but Dark grabs him by the shoulder, holding him in place. He attempts to shrug him off, but his grip grows tighter, shoving Anti backwards. 

“Move,” he hisses, his words heated as much as they can be for someone who just woke up. 

Even when he’s spouting off, he still manages to look cute--Dark marvels at the revelation. 

He gathers up the material of Anti’s shirt, clutching it between his fingers as he pulls the smaller creature toward him. Without giving Anti any chance to pull away from him, Dark kisses him as though his entire existence relies upon it.

It’s different from the normal kisses he gives Anti, which are soft and sweet and so casually normal, as if they’re a domestic couple sneaking kisses before work. This one, however, is a warning, an abrupt reminder of what he wants and what he’ll have. 

Unsurprisingly slack, Anti remains composed. Dark assumes he believes that if he doesn’t reciprocate, Dark will stop altogether.

This time, he does. When he pulls away, Anti wipes at his mouth, sneering at him before stalking past. The bathroom door slams shut, and he hears the lock clicking in place. 

It’s a good thing Dark remembered to cover the mirror. 

Sighing, Dark feels a sensation tingling his fingers. He pops his knuckles, and realizes just how much he’s itching to _move_. He’s been too stagnant recently, and the tension builds within him, coiling up around every inch of his muscles. He wants to break something.

Truthfully, he could break down the hotel door of the bathroom, which would likely frighten Anti to an extent, but that would probably earn him a couple days of Anti not talking to him, and he’s not in the mood to deal with that yet. 

Instead, he walks over to the kitchen and pulls out one of the mugs, embellished with the name of the hotel they’re staying in. In a swift movement, he slams it on the ground, ceramic going everywhere. 

Distantly, he hears the shower running, and assumes that Anti hadn’t even heard his commotion. 

Dark smiles. It’s not enough to satisfy him, but the destruction quells the immediate need. 

He sits down at the table, ignoring what few chunks of ceramic linger on top. He scans through his and Anti’s shared notes, and decides that whatever tension he still has will have to be alleviated with blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quin and I also realized that there was fanart for this story we almost didn't see! It was a gorgeous piece of work by a lovely person named jackcantinternet on tumblr. Thank you so much, friend, if you see this! Both Quin and I reblogged the piece with our comments and appreciation on it, so I hope you've seen it!
> 
> That said, if you ever draw us fanart, please tag us on Tumblr! 
> 
> GG's tumblr: galaxyghosty.tumblr.com  
> Quin's tumblr: septicrier.tumblr.com


	14. spitting blood on my pre-determined grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no going back from this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, our updating schedule is definitely all out of whack, but here's your latest chapter and maybe we'll be back on track with the next update. 
> 
> I should probably warn that the gore is back this time with a vengeance, so please be forewarned that it's definitely going to be prominent this time around.
> 
> Also, I've noticed that people are sending us song recommendations for the fic, so if anyone has any songs that they'd like to recommend for this fic, please let us know and we'll add them to a playlist (which we may share with you sometime in the future). :D
> 
> Title is from Pain by Of Mice and Men (which fits the fic very well, if you'd like to listen while reading).

Dark is pretty when he’s acting dangerous.

Anti stops playing with his knife and blinks rapidly, then files that little internal confession into a mental lockbox to be thrown out and burned later. Thoughts about Dark aren’t welcome in his head—they take up too much space.

‘ _Sounds more like all that denial is what’s taking up all the extra empty headspace. It’s too bad you’re gonna run out of room up here eventually._ ’

McLoughlin, true to form, throws them right back in his face with morbid gusto.

‘ **Shut up,** ’ Anti grumbles back, distracted by the scene unfolding in front of him. ‘ **What the fuck do you know, human?** ’

‘ _Everything._ ’ McLoughlin’s presence gets stronger in his head for a moment, as if he’s trying to make a statement, and then it shrinks back into a murmur once again. ‘ _I can hear everything you think, remember? We share a brain now, thanks to you._ ’

‘ **Not for long.** ’ Talking to McLoughlin is a stark reminder of why he’s here now, cooped up in Fischbach’s stupid shiny car, watching Dark stalk the house of the man they’d followed home from work less than an hour ago.

Dark had disappeared earlier today with little explanation as to where he was going and Anti had chalked it up to him having a moody morning, waving him off without so much as a goodbye. He’d been dedicating some extra effort into finding a spell that would allow them to preserve the harvested organs long enough to use them for the ritual, and he hadn’t been interested in questioning Dark’s motives.

Dark hadn’t returned until late afternoon, sporting a triumphant grin and his usual smarmy demeanor, and Anti had braced himself for the inevitable monologuing.

“I found us a security guard.” Dark had plopped down in the seat next to Anti, still obstinately searching for a spell.

“That’s great,” he’d replied, rubbing away the headache that had been started forming sometime after Dark had slammed the door that morning. “What the fuck do we need a security guard for? I thought your muscles were big enough to scare just about anyone away.”

Dark had looked at him sourly, and Anti would have been proud of that response had he not been missing the silence from seconds earlier.

“Not for us, asshole,” Dark had said, scowling. “For the ritual. The root chakra is based around security, survival, and primal instincts, including the instinct to protect. So I found us a guard whose feet we can steal.”

Anti had just looked at him.

“You make it sound like we have a really aggressive foot fetish,” he’d remarked, dry of humor. “How about telling me where this guy lives instead?”

“I don’t even have a fetish for your feet, thanks.” Dark hadn’t looked like he was joking, and had instead shoved his phone in Anti’s direction. “There. Name and address and background information. Mostly irrelevant stuff, but he fits the profile pretty decently. Security guard for ten plus years, live alone, clean record. Real nice, upstanding guy.”

Anti had glanced at the phone, scrolling through the information Dark had pulled from—somewhere. He hadn’t cared to ask how Dark went about finding employment records on a random individual, but he’d figured he was better off not knowing the details.

“You’re gonna enjoy this aren’t you?” he’d asked, sliding the phone back to Dark with a knowing look.

Dark had pocketed his phone and grimaced, but it had looked less like pain and more like unkempt energy shifting beneath his skin.

“I’d enjoy killing a squirrel at this point,” he’d admitted, and Anti had seen the way his hands had clenched and unclenched, erratic. “I’m fucking bored. Why won’t you let me do anything? Do you even like killing things? Have you ever had fun?”

“I had a lot of fun while you weren’t here,” Anti had replied, leaning back in his chair. “Mostly because it was quiet and I was alone.”

The truth is, Anti does enjoy killing, but he doesn’t experience it the way Dark does. Dark does things just because he can, because he wants to and there’s nothing standing in the way of him getting any of it.

Anti’s pleasures are smaller, more specific, finely tuned to his desires and mood at any given moment. They aren’t grand displays of violence and viscera, spontaneous destruction just for the hell of it. He prefers to take his time with people and places and things, and the payoff is almost always more rewarding that way.

He’d rather watch something burn than explode, but Dark is all about the fireworks.

“You keep saying those things like they mean something,” Dark hadn’t been impressed. “But I don’t think they do. If you’re trying to bore me out of being interested in you, it’s not going to work. I’m not going anywhere Anti, just deal with it.”

That conversation had fizzled out into pointless bickering like they always did, but Dark had made himself useful again and they’d managed to scrounge together a spell that would preserve any severed body part from rotting for up to a month before the spell had to be renewed.

“We’re still putting this shit in a box or a cooler somewhere,” Anti had wrinkled his nose at the prospect of a car trunk filled with assorted limbs, rolling around in the back while Dark broke every speed limit known to man.

“What, you’re not gonna keep a finger or two under your pillow?” Dark had laughed at him, head in his lap as Anti wrote out the final form of the incantation from the comfort of their king size hotel bed. “Maybe make a necklace out of teeth and toes? I bet you’d look dashing.”

Anti had been mildly concerned that Dark was being serious for a moment, seeing as how he wouldn’t put it past the guy to do both of those things un-ironically, but then he’d seen the mischievous glint in Dark’s eyes and sneered.

“I’ll make a necklace out of your teeth if you don’t start taking this seriously,” he’d growled, blinking away the blurriness of staring at paper and pen for too long. “We’re going out _tonight_ to find this guy, now that we have the preservation spell completed. If we could get all the kills done within a month’s time I’d be fucking ecstatic.”

“I get to kill him tonight?” Dark had perked up a little, blinking happily up at Anti like a child who’d been told they were going out for ice cream. “Are you gonna watch?”

Anti had finished off the writing with a relieved flourish and tossed the pen to the side, hand cramping in the wake of countless hours of slaving over his research.

“If by ‘watch’ you mean am I going to come with, then yeah, I’m gonna watch,” he’d said, cracking his knuckles and resting his hands in Dark’s messy hair, too tired to argue for personal space after a day of being moderately successful. “I’m not letting you loose on anyone by yourself, as much as it pains me to have to babysit your ass.”

Dark hadn’t even frowned at the insinuation that he was a child—he’d just closed his eyes and settled into Anti’s lap, enjoying the feel of fingers sifting through his hair and purring low in his throat.

Now, hours later, they’re sitting here in Fischbach’s car, parked under a low hanging tree while Dark snoops on their target’s house and Anti tries his best to be patient with the passenger in his head.

‘ _You’re not really gonna kill that guy, are you?_ ’ McLoughlin wasn’t around to witness the untimely murder of that one guy back in the alley near his home, so he’s got no idea what Anti’s really capable of. ‘ _You can’t. They’ll catch us—you—eventually._ ’

‘ **I’m not,** ’ Anti immediately disregards McLoughlin’s worry. If he keeps up this inner dialogue they’ve got going, he’s going to shut him down before he can give Anti another headache. ‘ **Dark’s going to do all the grunt work. This isn’t my kill anyways.** ’

McLoughlin’s protests are drowned out by the sound of Dark interrupting the otherwise silent car space.

“There’s no one else here,” Dark says aloud. “He’s sitting in front of the television and he hasn’t moved for a while.”

“Are we going in?” Anti has no idea what Dark has in mind for their first victim, but he’s fairly certain it’s not going to be a clean kill. “I’m tired of sitting in this fucking car. My knees hurt.”

Dark ignores his complaints and opens the driver’s side door. Anti takes that as a yes.

“We’re going in through the back door.” Dark stretches and grins, slamming the car door behind him like he’s trying to announce his presence. The sound makes Anti’s eye twitch. “If we wait until he goes to bed he’ll probably arm the house and I’m not waiting around any longer.”

“Just don’t get us caught by anyone,” Anti echoes McLoughlin’s sentiments from moments earlier, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a handful of latex gloves. He tosses a pair to Dark and takes two for himself. “I’m not getting my ass chased by the cops just because you can’t keep your victims quiet.”

Dark’s walking faster than usual as they head towards the side yard, avoiding the streetlamps at all costs because this is a halfway decent neighborhood and Mr. Security Guard (Anti thinks his last name was something like Tasselfoot) probably has neighbors that call the cops if they see a car they don’t recognize.

“Slow down, asshole,” Anti gripes, trying not to step in any gopher holes as Dark clears the low wooden fence in a single leap. “Not all of us had our wheaties this morning.”

Dark doesn’t even wait for Anti to make it all the way over the fence, just wraps two arms around his waist and hoists him over like he’s made of air.

“You talk too much,” Dark tells him, setting him down without letting go of his waist. “Now’s not really the time.”

Anti wriggles away, but not before Dark’s had a chance to cheekily grab a handful of his ass and breathe heavily into his personal space.

“Now’s not the time to be molesting me, either,” he hisses, recoiling from Dark’s solid form. “Although you seem to have absolutely no problem with doing that.”

“I never have a problem with touching you,” Dark doesn’t sound at all apologetic, but Anti can see the unstable tremors wracking his hands. He’s jonesing for something, probably violence and snapping necks, and Anti doesn’t want those hands anywhere near him. “I don’t know why you do.”

Anti just shakes his head, tiptoeing silently up the back steps. There’s a light still on and he can see the reflection of the television in the window.

“I don’t trust what you’d do to me,” he mutters, sensing Dark’s presence directly behind him once more, and then they both fall momentarily quiet.

The back door is unlocked, and Dark breaks the silence when the knob gives beneath Anti’s hands.

“Idiot,” he murmurs, his breath hot on Anti’s neck. “It’s like he’s asking for me to twist his head off.”

“Hush,” Anti’s ten kinds of fucking grateful that the door barely squeaks, and that the TV’s on loud enough to block the sound of them creeping forward. Dark wraps one ridiculously large hand around his hip and then goes silent again; the two of them rounding the corner to the living room after Dark quietly shuts the door behind them.

The guard—Tasselfoot—is clearly asleep on the couch, not even startling when they sneak up behind him and Anti’s mouth curls in disgust. He’s a shit security guard if he can’t even remember to lock down his house or keep an eye out for two people breaking into his living room after dusk.

Dark stops behind him, fingers squeezing on Anti’s hip and he shudders, the tension of knowing what Dark’s about to do with those hands thickening in the half-lit room. He’s never seen Dark kill anyone, never seen him get violent with anyone other than Anti, but he knows that they’re in Dark’s element now.

‘ _Please don’t do this,_ ’ McLoughlin’s voice is back and it sounds less confident now, hints of desperation peeking through the cracks in his words like murky light. ‘ _You don’t have to do this, Anti. Just leave the guy alone and get Dark away from here. We can talk—you can find another way to get what you want._ ’

‘ **There is no other way**.’ That’s not an opinion, it’s fact. ‘ **If you keep whining I’m going to shut you up.** ’

‘ _No!_ ’ Dark moves from behind Anti at the same time McLoughlin’s wail echoes off the walls of his brain. Pain shoots through his skull and he winces. ‘ _Dark’s too dangerous! He’ll tear him apart—he’ll tear_ us _apart, Anti! You don’t know what he’s capable of._ ’

Dark motions for him to stand behind Tasselfoot, eyes darting towards the sleeping form on the sofa like he’s seeing meat instead of a man. He hunches over the end of the couch across from Anti, where the guard’s feet are propped up innocuously, but he doesn’t make a sound. Anti tries his best to blink through the agony of being bombarded with howls from the inside of his head, doing as directed.

‘ **Neither do you,** ’ he reminds McLoughlin, who’s still begging Anti to reconsider, high and terrified. ‘ **Besides, Dark would never hurt me.** ’

Anti meets Dark’s eyes across the dim space, and Dark nods only once.

Anti strikes.

He’s strong enough to hold Tasselfoot in a chokehold, even if his strength is no match for Dark’s even on his best days. When the guard wakes, gasping for breath in confusion, his limbs flail wildly against the couch in Anti’s grip. There’s no coordination, just muddled bewilderment and the sharp scent of fear.

“Hi!” Dark waves from the end of the couch, once Anti’s holding the guard down sufficiently enough that he can’t break free. Superhuman strength does have its perks. “Sorry to bother you so late at night, but we’re kind of in a hurry and I think you have something that we need.”

“What?!” the man splutters, choked with fear and struggling to breathe against Anti’s hold around his neck. His hands are still fighting, trying to break free. “Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here?”

Dark sighs and grabs the man’s ankles where they’re kicking futilely at the armrest. “I don’t think you’d be interested in hearing our sob story at the moment, so we’re just gonna take what we need and go, if you don’t mind. This will be so much easier if you cooperate.”

“I ain’t cooperatin’ with shit until you get out of my goddamn house!” Tasselfoot’s face is bright red already, though whether it’s from oxygen deprivation or burgeoning rage, Anti’s not sure.

“Settle the fuck down,” he snarls, grabbing the crook of Tasselfoot’s arm and wrenching it backwards, snapping the bone as the man screams hoarsely. “If you don’t keep quiet and let my partner do his job I’ll snap both your arms in half and see what you’ve got to say to us then.”

“Fuck you!” Tasselfoot howls in his ear and it’s almost as bad as McLoughlin’s simpering from earlier. “What do you want from me?”

Dark grins, and in the failing light he looks awful, sharp teeth and heavy red eyes glinting above the bulk of his shoulders and chest. There’s a hunger in his eyes, one Anti’s only seen when Dark’s looked at him in the past, and were he any lesser of a being he’d have dropped Tasselfoot’s quivering body and run for his fucking life.

“We need to borrow your feet,” Dark says, his stolen voice so low Anti can feel it in his toes. “This might hurt a little.”

Anti is infinitely glad that he’d shut McLoughlin off from seeing what happens next, because the screaming would have probably rendered him unconscious, and then Dark would have been pissed.

Dark holds down Tasselfoot’s right leg with his knee and grips the left foot between both hands, the human’s squirming torso doing nothing to free him from Dark’s hold, and then Dark _twists_.

Tasselfoot shrieks, so loudly that Anti has to punch him in the mouth to shut him up, and he listens to the sound of bone crunching and muscles winding beneath Dark’s fingers as he digs into the flesh beneath his nails, tearing off the guard’s left foot like it’s attached to his leg with toothpicks.

“There we go,” Dark holds the first foot in the air like a trophy, and Anti can see the manic smile in his eyes. He tosses it to the side, flicking strings of tendon and skin from his fingertips, and he pats the ragged stump of Tasselfoot’s leg, beating helplessly against the armrest. “One down, one to go. You’re being surprisingly good for this, you know—I’m impressed.”

“I dislocated his jaw,” Anti grunts, still struggling to keep the human in one place. Tasselfoot has slowed down a bit, the pain and shock of being dismembered while awake ruining any agility he may have had, but the position is awkward and Anti doesn’t appreciate uncooperative victims.

“Thanks, baby.” Dark’s voice is going rough and jagged around the edges, and he doesn’t look at Anti when he speaks, hands already locking around Tasselfoot’s other ankle. “You’re always so good to me.”

Dark breaks through the bones in the guard’s leg with his incredible strength, accidentally twisting off more than just the right foot and Tasselfoot can’t scream properly anymore. His throat is raw and his jaw is out of place, but the noises he’s making sound like he’s being gutted and Anti thinks for a moment that they should have cut out his tongue first.

“There.” Dark sets the other foot on the ground, still attached to a shard of bone protruding from the bleeding mess of Tasselfoot’s former ankle. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? At least we didn’t have to do open heart surgery this time. The guy who’s gotta suffer through that is gonna have a pretty fucking bad—.”

Dark doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Anti’s grip has loosened ( _stupid, stupid_ ) on Tasselfoot’s neck and the guard rears back with the remainder of his strength, skull knocking into Anti’s teeth and nose with an angry vengeance.

Anti seethes and ducks his head, and Tasselfoot’s unbroken arm swings wildly towards his face, catching the socket of his good eye with a _whap!_

The sound of the blow reverberates through the bone of his skull, and he chokes on a breath.

He drops Tasselfoot’s body and turns away, tasting blood in his mouth and hunching over, spitting onto the carpet.

“Fuck!” he grates out, turning the air black with ire. “You little bitch, you hit my fucking eye!”

He looks back, ready to disregard Dark’s prior ridiculous monologuing and pluck Tasselfoot’s fucking eyes out with his own hands, but an inhuman roar stops him in his tracks.

Tasselfoot’s bleeding out quickly, barely conscious from the pain and blood loss and effort it took to even try and injure Anti, but Dark doesn’t seem to care.

He grabs Tasselfoot by the neck and lifts him above the couch, the man’s mutilated body dangling over the blood soaked cushions, and Anti sees Dark’s shoulders shaking again.

“You don’t touch what’s not yours,” he rumbles, and it’s so off color that Anti doesn’t even recognize the sound of it. “You don’t touch him, _ever_.”

Tasselfoot can’t do more than whimper quietly, his whole body sagging around Dark’s hold, and then Dark squeezes so hard the bones in his neck seem to melt. There’s a horrible, snapping sound, like a hundred twigs breaking all at once, and then Tasselfoot’s body separates from his head, slumping back down onto the cushions below.

Dark drops the head in his hand like a dead weight, and it rolls slightly onto the floor, but Anti can’t see where it rests. He looks over at Dark’s heaving, shadowed form, and the monster blinks back at him.

“Anti,” Dark says, quieter, but ragged like he’s just ran a marathon. “Anti, come here. I need to touch you. Right now.”

Every single cell in Anti’s stolen body balks at that, because there’s nothing in Dark’s face or voice that looks inviting.

“I’m okay,” he begins, scowling through the blood trickling down from his nose. “He was just a human, Dark. He couldn’t have hurt me that badly. I don’t know why you always have to fucking—.”

Dark whirls around and slams his fist into the coffee table, snapping it in half like it’s made of cardboard and Anti shuts the fuck up.

“I said _now_!”

His legs move without his permission, but it’s his better judgment taking control, not McLoughlin’s influence, and Anti holds both palms out, cautionary.

“Calm the fuck down,” he growls, moving closer to stand in front of Dark, hands pressing flat against his chest. It’s warm and solid beneath Anti’s palms, but he doesn’t dare do anything else. “It’s just some human trying to throw a punch with only one working arm. I’m fine. I’m _fine_.”

“You’re going to have a black eye,” Dark’s gloved hands are bloody and smeared with viscera, but they wrap around Anti’s waist like they had just minutes before in the backyard, and this time Anti doesn’t fight them. “You’re not going to be able to see tomorrow.”

“I know.” He really isn’t—the eye is smarting and it’s probably swelling now as they speak. It’s just his luck—one eye too dangerous to reveal and another blackened by the first victim they lay hands on. “Stupid fucking human got the drop on me—I shouldn’t have let my guard down.”

Anti fists both hands in Dark’s shirt and stares him down, despite the way his skin crawls at letting Dark touch him so intimately. His hackles are up, the way they always are when he encounters a threat, and Dark is definitely registering as a hazard to his brain at the moment.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.” Dark repeats his words from earlier like they’re all he has to argue with at the moment, and his arms tighten around Anti’s waist. “No one touches you but me.”

Anti rolls his eyes and immediately regrets it. Even blinking hurts.

“Whatever you say, Incredible Hulk.” He spots a fleck of blood on Dark’s neck and smears it away without thinking. “My eye will heal in a day or two. I’ll probably manage to survive until then. Am I going to have to drive this time?”

Dark closes his eyes and inhales, and Anti’s ears ring as he holds his breath, the silence deafening.

“We need to get out of here,” Dark doesn’t let go of him, but his heartbeat slows minutely beneath Anti’s fingertips. “I can still drive, if you’ll grab the feet so we can go. I don’t wanna be here any longer with that _thing_.”

“Good.” Anti knows he’s talking about the guard, and he gives him a moment, because he’s honestly not about to try and pull away when Dark’s still this volatile. He doesn’t trust the other demon at all. “You’d better not get us both killed.”

-.-

The first thing Jack is aware of when Anti lifts the veil is the shower running.

Everything is foggy for a moment, the way it always is when he reawakens from whatever forced obscurity Anti packages him away into at times like these. Then he notices the red streaks swirling down the floor of the bathtub, and if he had control of his stomach, it would drop like a stone.

 _‘You murdered him, didn’t you?_ ’ he asks, but he doesn’t bother to yell. Being locked away saps his energy and Anti would just shut him away again if he did. _‘That guy—Dark killed him?’_

Anti stops scrubbing at his arms for a moment, and then he continues, unfazed.

 **‘Yeah,’** he answers. **‘You gonna freak out about it?’**

 _‘Will it change anything about the fact that you’ve ruined our lives?’_ Jack is angry, so angry it’s a miracle he’s even mentally coherent at the moment, but he’s trapped in here, motionless and incorporeal.

 **‘Probably not,’** Anti’s dull tone doesn’t brighten. **‘I don’t plan on being around in this body long enough to care what happens to it, and your conscious mind won’t last any longer than it does. It’s not really my problem.’**

 _‘What’s that supposed to mean?’_ Jack’s more than glad that Anti had cut him off from seeing what Dark did, but he saw the face of the man that died before Dark had attacked. He’s gone now—dead—and somehow, Jack’s hands are responsible.

 **‘It means there’s an expiration sticker on your life,’** Anti sounds like he’s reading the label off the back of the shampoo bottle. **‘Human souls don’t survive demonic rituals. We don’t spare them, we consume them.’**

If Jack had a body to sit down with at the moment, he’d need an entire couch.

 _‘I thought we’d get our bodies back once you got your own,’_ he whispers, the feeling of shock invading his entire conscious mind. _‘You never said we were gonna fucking_ die _.’_

 **‘Did you think you were going to survive?’** For a second, Anti sounds genuinely surprised. Jack would punch him in the jaw if he had hands. **‘It’s just magic, okay? I don’t make the rules.’**

 _‘That’s bullshit,’_ Jack wonders if Mark knows this, that the demons wearing their skin don’t ever intend on giving them back. He wonders if Mark is thinking about him at all, if he’s even still alive in Dark’s body.

He wonders how he can still feel this sick without a real stomach.

 _‘That’s bullshit,’_ he repeats again, harder this time. _‘You used us—whatever you are—you_ used _us to get free, to walk alone and on your own so that you could find something better. I never asked for this—I shouldn’t have to look forward to death because I was unlucky enough to get possessed by some self-absorbed devil from the underworld.’_

Anti laughs, and it’s the closest thing to real amusement Jack’s heard from his own mouth in awhile.

 **‘You’re cute,’** he says, rinsing the soap from his hair. **‘I hate to break it to you Jackaboy, but you and me? We’re the same person—our brains are just blended up a little differently.’**

Jack really doesn’t have any more room in his tiny walled cell for more surprises, but Anti apparently hasn’t noticed.

 _‘We are not the same person,’_ he hisses, denial flooding his miniature corner of the brain that should belong only to him. _‘I am not you—not even a little bit.’_

Anti turns the water off, and Jack still feels the chill of the bathroom air even without access to his arms.

 **‘Every part of me is shaped like you,’** Anti tells him, toweling off his hair and tugging on a pair of shorts, replacing the eyepatch with a wince. **‘I’m not a beast that’s made a home inside your head, or whatever overdramatic nightmare rhymes you’ve been feeding yourself lately. I’m _you_ , through and through—just a whole lot better at doing it.’**

 _‘Shut up,’_ Jack bites out, because he can’t process that information, not so quickly after the revelation that neither Anti nor Dark intend for them to survive.

Dark.

 _‘You can’t convince me that that thing out there—’_ Jack knows Anti understands that he’s referring to Dark. ‘ _Is actually just a nastier, more sadistic version of Mark. They have nothing in common. Mark feels guilty when he swats flies, he buys bows for his dog’s hair, he plays video games for a goddamn living. He’s the least aggressive guy you’ll ever meet.’_

 **‘I hope,’** Anti begins, opening the door to the room and emerging half dressed. **‘For your sake, that your lover isn’t actually anything like Dark. If he is, then I’m seriously questioning your taste in partners. Dark is awful.’**

The devil in question is lying across the bed, corner to corner, sprawled out like an overdramatic painting of a fifteenth century noblewoman. He looks up at Anti as he enters, pout set firmly in place on his mouth.

“I almost thought you’d drowned,” he whines, picking at the bedspread. “Why do you always take such long showers?”

 **‘See what I mean?’** Anti mutters in his head, at the exact time Jack says, _‘Dark loves you.’_

Anti huffs, glaring at Dark where he’s draped over the edge of the bed and Jack can tell he’s frustrated with the both of them.

Jack’s not stupid, he knows that whatever Dark calls ‘love’ is actually just a sick sense of infatuation, an obsession with Anti that grows stronger as Anti continues to refuse him. Dark is dangerous and unpredictable, temper like a single bullet in a gun chamber; a walking, talking game of Russian Roulette.

What Dark feels for Anti is nothing like what Jack feels for Mark, what Jack hopes Mark feels for him in return.

“You stole all the hot water,” is all Anti says out loud, and Dark snorts.

“Yeah, ‘cause I was jerking off in there,” he says, and Jack recoils inwardly. Anti barely flinches.

“You’re fucking nasty, you know that?” he complains, tugging a shirt over his head (it’s the light blue one, the one that Mark thinks is cute). “I don’t need any updates on what you’re doing with your dick.”

“I’d like an update on what you’re doing with yours,” Dark smirks, then pauses. “Oh wait, it’s fucking nothing, because you won’t let me sleep with you.”

“You’re not missing anything,” Anti informs him dryly, and Jack really does not want to be around to hear this conversation. “I wouldn’t be any fun anyways.”

Dark makes an affronted noise and sits up.

“I beg to differ,” he intrudes, crossing his arms. “You’re the only kind of fun I want to be having.”

It might be funny if it were Mark saying those words, because he’d be making stupid faces at Jack and trying to tickle him into submission, but Dark doesn’t look like he’s joking at all.

“You had fun tonight, didn’t ye?” Anti’s heart is beating off-key, but it’s not Jack’s fault this time. “Aren’t ye done for the night?”

Dark stands in one smooth motion, and the movement looks inherently predatory. Jack would swallow heavily if he could, but Anti does it for him, hands going clammy from sudden nerves.

“Oh, come on baby.” Dark’s coming closer, and his hair is wet and dripping from the shower he’d taken before Anti, the bright red shock of his eyes getting darker in the cheap light of the hotel lamp. “You know me better than that. I’m never, _ever_ done with your pretty face.”

“Lucky me,” is all Anti manages to get out, and then Dark’s kissing him.

This isn’t the first time Dark’s done it, but it’s the first time Anti hasn’t shoved him away after roughly three seconds of mouth to mouth suffering.

Anti’s hands flounder briefly, unsure of where to go, and then they move to fist in Dark’s shirt beneath his fingers. He kisses back, mouth hesitant and searching, and plasters himself to Dark’s front, legs wrapping around Dark’s waist.

Jack turns the lights out in his head and vanishes, because he can’t bear to watch what happens next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and remember that we're accepting song suggestions so long as they fit within the theme of the fic somehow!
> 
> Also, a life lesson to take home: Don't be like Dark, kids. Consent is important, and if you have to coerce someone into sleeping with you then it's not really consent.


	15. twisting the kaleidoscope behind both of my eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tie a noose around your mind  
> Loose enough to breathe fine and tie it  
> To a tree. Tell it, "You belong to me.  
> This ain't a noose, this is a leash.  
> And I have news for you: you must obey me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? GG's updating on the day she's supposed to? Sorcery! 
> 
> Nah. Just me finally getting my ass in gear. As always, thank you for your everlasting and endless patience with us and our erratic schedule. Quin has a good start on her chapter and so if the universe allows it, we'll actually be updating on Saturday, too. This chapter is my longest yet (5.1k) and though I'm not entirely pleased with it, I hope you guys can find some enjoyment in it.
> 
> Lots of new information in this chapter. Lots more to come. 
> 
> But onto the chapter! 
> 
> Title and summary are from "Holding On To You" by Twenty One Pilots.

He shakes, thinking of what his hands have done.

Dark is a cruel creature, incapable of feeling anything but obsession and destruction, and Mark wants him _out_.

He’s been screaming more fervently at the demon ever since he first realized what was about to take place, and the bastard had made every sensation available to him, from the twisting and cracking of bones to warm, stickiness of blood on the tips of his fingers. 

If Mark could throw up, if his throat listened to him, he would have vomited.

Never in his life had he seen so much blood. So much viscera. In all his life, he’s never felt so many sensations and been utterly disgusted with himself in the way that he had been that night. 

Dark refuses to speak to him. But he acknowledges Mark is there. Enough, long enough to make him suffer. 

For this, he gives Dark no peace. 

In every waking moment, with every ounce of his energy, he howls and beats at the chains holding him in place, whatever voice he’s granted inside of his own head reverberating back to him with little success. His intangible screams do not make him hoarse--the silence a more fitting punishment in the eyes of the beast. 

But he never stops. Though he’s no longer in control, he demands that Dark speak to him, face him, force him to wash the blood off hands that aren’t his, that have never been his. 

It’s one of the few things that keeps him sane, keeps him from withering away into the spineless shell Dark demands him to be. 

~~

Anti is pretty in whatever he does, but he’s absolutely stunning when he does what Dark wants him to. 

To finally kiss Anti without being swatted away, without being spat upon or scorned or ignored--it had felt like the best of gifts, wrapped in a neat little package for him to tear apart. He’s hungered for him, to feel his skin in a way that hadn’t been in repulsion or disgust. 

The other is beautiful in every sense of the word--even if his tongue is scathing and his words are sharp. Dark could write sonnets about the way his stolen body catches the light, owning it in a way that McLoughlin never could. And the fact that he’s slowly coming around makes him all the more desirable.

He’s grown quite tired of playing hard-to-get, and lately he’s been a bit short-tempered in humoring him. His touches with Anti have grown in frequency, more bold and grasping, demanding that his appetite for him be satisfied. 

The best part is, the other seems a fraction more accommodating. 

One way Dark can describe Anti’s attitude towards him after his--no, _their_ \--first kill is _warm_. He’s pleasant, almost, somehow tweaking his demeanor in a way that invites him in. Naturally, such an activity would only bring them closer together. They’ve solidified their partnership--now that Anti has completed a kill with him, there will be no one else. Only Dark has acted upon and witnessed the same things that Anti has, and that’s how it will stay. Anti is letting him in.

Only the barest amounts, but the door is open now, even if the other hasn’t realized it yet. 

Anti is convinced he doesn’t love Dark. But he does. He has from the first moment that he had been aware of Dark’s existence. His love had been like a lone seed--it needed to be nurtured for it to grow, to bloom into everything Dark had ever wanted. It’s going to take time, but he’s already getting there. Allowing him to kiss him openly, allowing him to taste what little he'd been willing to give--Anti is here, now. There’s no turning back. 

When he’d kissed Anti, he had expected much the same reaction as he normally got. Slackness, frustration, anger, and a shove that would result in Dark releasing him, just to avoid further conflict. Anti is smaller than him in physique, so holding him there, delighting in his smell and energy wouldn’t have been an issue, but sometimes it’s easier to let Anti think he has the upper hand as though Dark is a dog on a leash, blindly following him. 

But Anti hadn’t pushed away. Dark had reveled in so many sensations--the searching wonder, the slight tension with each passing second. He’d been hesitant, sure, but the uncomfortableness had melted into a sense of curiosity, one that had resulted in quite a lot of fun on Dark’s end. 

They had kissed a lot that night, barely breaking apart for air in the space between them. He’d managed to coerce Anti into bed, loosely sitting on Dark's lap as he ran his hands along the expanse of his back, memorizing every curve, every indentation of the bones beneath the fragile skin. Anti’s fingers had found his hair, carding through them, pulling in a peculiar mixture of gentleness and sharpness. 

He had thought he could feel every part of Anti and never truly be satisfied. But he had taken whatever he could from him, filling himself to the brim and storing some away for later to remind himself when Anti pretended again that he did not love him. 

Dark had felt Fischbach whining in the back of his mind, frustrated that his first kiss with McLoughlin was through someone else’s desires, when it belonged to their lips but not to them. He had felt the feeble attempts to experience the way it felt to kiss McLoughlin, even if only for a moment, but Dark wouldn’t have given up Anti for anyone. Certainly not for him. 

Anti had stopped him a little while later, hair still damp and sticky, his pointed nails digging into his shoulders as he eased Dark away, cocking his head. The way the cheap lamp light illuminated his cheeks, half of his face covered in the shadow of night, had indicated that he was done with their interactions. Dark had held him for a moment longer, gripping at his skin, imprinting the feeling onto his hands before Anti finally broke away from him, grabbing the cigarettes from the nightstand and heading out onto the balcony.

An elated sense of satisfaction had risen within him, though, crawling into every part of him. The victory had been even sweeter when Anti had gotten into bed later, not so much as putting up a fuss when Dark wrapped his arms around him, pressing his lips to his neck for a couple of rounds before finally settling in for sleep. 

He could get used to Anti letting him do things. 

~~

“I’ve found someone to satisfy the sixth chakra,” Anti murmurs in the stillness of the hotel room. 

Dark opens his eyes, staring at him from his place in his lap. It’s becoming standard for Dark to lay his head in Anti’s lap after a long day of researching potential victims and their habits, while the other smokes, filling the room with clouds of nicotine. 

“Oh?” Dark drawls, closing his eyes again. “Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you baby? We’ve barely gotten the first one for me, let alone you.” 

Though he’s not looking, he can feel the scowl on Anti’s face. “I’m not going to pass up an opportunity to satisfy a chakra just because you want to go in order. There’s nothing in the ritual that says we have to go in sequence. All of the parts just have to be present. This person fits the bill.” 

He doesn’t answer, letting his silence be an indicator to continue talking. Anti seems to relish in the quiet for a moment. “A girl. Mid-thirties. She’s a self-proclaimed psychic among the locals. The sixth chakra deals with _seeing beyond the five senses_ or some bullshit like that, along with intuition. From what I’ve heard, she’s a real goody two-shoes, and hasn’t been wrong with anyone who’s come and seen her.”

“She could just be a crazy with no sort of intuition at all,” Dark counters, opening his eyes. Anti gazes down at him, regarding him with a mute expression. “This one’s tricky, Anti. You gotta be sure.”

“Do you think I’d bring it up if I wasn’t?” Anti fires back, the lace of venom cropping up again, where it had been mostly dormant for the last few days. The indication that he could be wrong obviously doesn’t settle well with him. “I think she’ll satisfy it quite nicely. All I have to do is tear the eyes out of her head.” 

“Sounds delightful,” Dark purrs, sitting up. He shifts until he’s next to him, staring at him with as much adoration as he feels. “I can’t wait to see you at work. I bet you’re just as pretty covered in blood as you are now.”

Anti bristles, perhaps at the implication that he’s _pretty_ , but Dark notices the way he takes the compliment nonetheless. His words are finally sinking in with the other, like a diluted poison that’s slowly taking effect after a great deal of waiting. Dark shuts down the opportunity for Anti to rebuttal by kissing him quickly, letting his lips linger for a moment longer, wondering if Anti will pull away.

He doesn’t. Instead, Dark does first, Anti cocking his head in that familiar way that shows he’s thinking about something that he doesn't particularly feel like sharing. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks anyway, because Anti seems like he's in such a good mood right now he might let it slip. 

“Nothing I'm going to tell you,” Anti replies dryly, standing up in a swift movement. The bed creaks under the sudden lack of weight. “Come on. I've got details on this girl and I want to get started. I have a feeling she's going to be a screamer and I'm eager to cut out someone's tongue.”

“So you do get excited about things,” Dark muses, standing to join him.

Anti's answer is silence as he grabs the keys to the car from the counter, but the air between them is significantly less dense than normal, and Dark chalks that up as another victory in his favor. 

_What if he just pities you?_

The sudden intrusion of a thought that isn't his almost startles him, reminding him that he resides in a body that doesn't belong to him. Dark has spent months shoving Fischbach's voice down, and its reappearance causes anger to boil somewhere beneath his skin. He doesn't usually speak to him so directly, and with so much hatred.

“Are you coming?” Anti breaks in, interrupting the arising tantrum of Fischbach's return. “Because I'm going now, and if you're going to stand here lost in god-knows-where, I'm going to actually get shit done.”

_He thinks you're useless, you know. That you're only good for tearing people up and driving him insane._

**Are you trying to scare me?** He sends back, the first words he's ever really sent to Fischbach in response to a comment he's made. **Is this really the best you can muster up?**

_I'm just telling you what's true_. Fischbach replies. _I know what people in love look like. He's not in love with you and he's never gonna be._

The slamming of the door stops Dark from answering him, and he whips his head up to see Anti's left him. Swearing softly, he decidedly wipes his mind clear of Fischbach's cheap taunts. 

_You're not answering because you know I'm right._

~~

“Your smile is annoying me.”

Dark's smile grows even wider at the comment, drumming his fingers on the dashboard to a tune only he can hear. It's something jovial inside of him—the excitement of seeing blood spill so soon after the first kill, and at Anti's hands, no less. 

Anti is so methodical about what he does. In a rare moment of confidence, he had shared with Dark the plans he would be going about—how he would get in, restrain the girl, how he would rip her eyes right out of her skull with a gagged mouth, her muffled screams the only sound audible. In vivid detail, he had planned out everything in his mind, painted the perfect picture of what he wanted the scene to look like. It's the most thought that Dark's ever seen him put into anything. 

He catches the back end of something Anti said, but it makes little sense considering he didn't hear the first half. When he gives him no response, Anti rolls his eyes.

“Stay out of my way,” he says. “Don't even think about putting your grubby hands anywhere they don't belong.”

“So I can put my hands on you?” he drawls, snorting when Anti swats a hand at him. 

Pulling on latex gloves, he tosses the pack to Dark before stepping out of the car. Anti slams the door, not bothering to wait for him as he gets out to follow him. He's got a bag slung over his shoulder, one full of surprises for the girl waiting inside. It's a pretty secluded house, a creaking sign swinging back and forth with faded text reading: _Stella's Psychic Practice_

A quick glance to the upper floor indicates that someone is still awake, a dull lamp light illuminating the window. Anti seems to note this, and Dark watches him scout out possible entrances into the house. “We'll go in through the back.” 

The metal gate emits a shrill sound when Anti touches it, hissing at the slightest bit of movement. Bracing his hand between two of the rungs, he hoists himself over it, gliding onto the ground with a grace Dark didn't know McLoughlin's clumsy body was capable of. 

He follows him over in the same fashion, Anti already scouring the perimeter for a spare key, his deft fingers grazing along every available opening until finally, he withdraws one from its space underneath a loose brick of a small patio garden.

With a satisfying click, the lock opens and Anti turns the knob, the door not breathing so much as a whisper when it opens.

Dark thinks he sees Anti smile for just a second, before his expression goes hard and serious once again.

The house is pitch black save for the few streams of light that appear sporadically as a result of moonlight. Anti pauses in the doorway for a moment, letting his good eye adjust to the darkness before proceeding through the house with a purpose. Dark follows him with a sense of wonder, eager to see how he'll go about this kill.

When Dark had killed, the victim had been asleep, initially. But Anti's is awake, and he's eager to find out what he'll do to silence her.

Anti reaches the door that is presumably the girl's—the only room in the house with the lights turned on. He appears thoughtful for a moment, and Dark takes a second to wonder what someone is doing awake at this hour. Nevertheless, after what seems like a few seconds of calculation, Anti casually knocks on her door.

It's almost funny, but the seriousness of the action becomes prevalent when Anti steps to the side, his form shrouded by the shadows of the house. Dark can hear the thudding of cautious footsteps towards the door.

A beat passes, then two. Softly, the door cracks, a sliver of light coming through, before opening fully. 

She steps out, peering down the hallway, to the right, then to the left.

Stella, Dark recalls, notices Anti too late. Before she can fully process that there's a person standing where one shouldn't be, he locks her in a choke hold, pressing his forearm against her windpipe.

She gasps for air, startled by his sudden intrusion, but Anti's hold doesn't relinquish. Dark gazes upon him, enamored with the way the light catches his green hair, his pale skin wrapped around her throat with a steely look in his eye. After a few seconds of struggling, she goes limp, and Anti drops her. 

Grabbing his bag, he withdraws rope and a knife, kneeling down to tie her arms behind her. He tugs sharply, securing the knot, before doing the same with her feet. Leaving the knife out but throwing the rope back in his bag, Anti grabs the back of her shirt, tugging her back into the room. 

“Lock the door,” he orders, and Dark follows him in, turning to shut the door. He twists the lock, hearing a click before he turns back, just as Anti says, “Get her phone. Break it in half or whatever, I don't care. Just make sure it's unusable.”

He tosses her back into a desk chair, presumably where she'd been sitting before investigating the noise. Still unconscious, Stella's head lolls to the side, and Dark scours her desk for a phone of some kind.

Finding it plugged into the wall, Dark looks over the fancy device before squeezing it, hearing a gratifying crack beneath his fingers. 

A soft groan catches his attention, and Anti's leaning over the girl with mute interest, his body betraying no indication of what he's about to do. Dark wonders, briefly, why he hadn't just slit her throat in the hall, but asking will probably get him no response.

“You see, darling, I'm faced with an awful dilemma,” Anti murmurs. Dark thinks he's talking to him, but only when the girl's eyes open a fraction, squinting in the light and at his face, does he realize he's talking to her. “There's something I want and I need you to get it.”

Dark's heart picks up in his chest, and he recognizes it as Fischbach vying for control again, unwilling to witness another murder, even if not by his own hands. He squashes down whatever feelings he can, swallowing the bile threatening to rise in his throat because Fischbach's fragile constitution can't handle a little pain and suffering. 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Stella shrieks, her voice on the edge of hysteria. She's surprisingly panicked for someone who'd woken up only moments ago. “Who are you?”

“I want something and I need a psychic to get it. I hear you're a psychic. Is that true?” Anti asks, as though she hadn't spoken at all. 

“I-if you want me to tell you y-your future,” she stammers, wiggling a bit in the chair. “I'll do it. W-what do you need to know?” 

Anti smiles, and Dark's own lips curl by how sharp and feral it is. It's the first pure look of enjoyment he's seen on Anti's face since meeting him. 

“I know all that I need,” Anti says, and steps away from her.

Dark furrows his brows in confusion, wondering why Anti hasn't slit her throat or begun tearing out her eyes, when he gingerly removes the eyepatch from his eye.

It's a sickly shade of green, the entire eye looking like something straight out of a horror movie. There's a slimy liquid pooling inside the lid, and Dark stares at it in a mixed sense of fascination and curiosity.

“Baby,” he says, speaking for the first time since entering the house. “You didn't tell me about that little beauty.”

And there's a part of him angry about that. He's spent the last few weeks or so figuring out all of Anti's quirks and ticks and charms, memorizing every part of his host's body. It's obviously a feature of some kind, like their strength, but the fact that he knows nothing about what the weird eye can do annoys him. Obviously, it isn't a recent development, and Dark wants to know why such information wasn't divulged to him.

Anti seems lost in thought, though, tilting his head to look Stella in the eye with both of his own now in the open. For a second, she gazes back, seemingly lost in a trance, before a soft whimper escapes her lips, breaking the gaze.

He closes the space between them, gripping a fistful of her hair. He forces her to look at him again. “You have no idea what it's like, do you? Living in a body that isn't yours, forced to fight for every ounce of control you have? This little voice in your head, screaming at you constantly without a break? It'd make you want wrap this pretty hair of yours around your throat like a noose.” 

Dark can see the tears welling up in her eyes, the words punctuated with a firm yank.

Something stirs within him. He clenches his fists involuntarily, ignoring the gentle push in the back of his mind to walk towards Anti. 

The feeling fades. Sucking in a short breath, he focuses again on the pair. 

“Can you imagine that?” Anti hums, never breaking their shared gaze. “Your entire body driving you to madness? The feeling of maggots crawling beneath your skin, fingers peeling off until they're nothing but a lumpy stump of mangled flesh and bone.”

Stella writhes in the seat, desperately trying to pull away from him, but his grip seems too strong. Dark finds himself enamored with the exchange.

It's like Anti is a puppeteer, controlling each of her movements like she's nothing but a doll in his hands. His words are poison, a toxin that acts slow and spreads throughout each part of the body, injected directly into the bloodstream. It's unavoidable. It's sharp and there's no cure but to curl over and bend to whatever will he demands. 

_He's working the same poison on you. You're just a dog tied to a leash. Do you think you mean anything to him?_

Dark recognizes the urges now as Fischbach, trying to plant a seed of doubt into his mind. He almost laughs, because how could his fragile mortal mind know anything about what he and Anti have? He couldn't even get the man he loved. He's Anti's entire world, just like Anti is his. 

Of course he is. And even if he isn't now, he will be soon. 

_You keep telling yourself that._

Dark ignores him again, focusing on Anti once more. He had been expecting blood, gore, and viscera, and in a way he still wants to see it. He's itching to see more limbs torn from flesh, to hear the cracking of bones. But this is beautiful in its own way. 

This girl is at Anti's mercy, and he's pulling every ounce of entertainment he can out of it.

He rattles on for a while longer, morbid words dripping from his tongue like acid, burning into her in such a way that she begins to sob profusely. Anti doesn't let her move, just keeps talking and Dark can feel the energy radiating from him, the pleasure of hearing this girl blubber uncontrollably.

“Anti,” Dark interrupts, because as gorgeous as Anti is tormenting someone, the lack of death is annoying to him. “Just rip her fucking eyes out already. We don't have all night.”

Anti scoffs in response. “Patience, _a mhuirnín_. You have your way, I have mine.”

But reluctantly, Anti shoves her back, her whimpering filling the silence. Dark's nose scrunches at the foreign words on his tongue, unfamiliar with the language that could very well have been jumbled garbage. “What?”

Anti has no opportunity to answer when a frantic knocking comes on the door. The two exchange looks before a voice calls out, “Stella? Stella!” 

Before Dark can make his way over, Anti crosses the space between him and the door, before a clicking of the lock can be heard. Someone throws the door open, and another girl is standing there, her face immediately paling at the sight of Anti, and Dark across the room. 

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” she hisses, her voice quivering a fraction. “I'm calling the police!”

Dark wonders how far he's going to have to chase her through the house and how easy it'll be to snap her neck. 

“Do you really want to try that?” Anti drawls, and his neutral tone is back, the one that sounds bored and annoyed at the same time.

The second girl trembles in her place, and Dark moves to fucking end her for talking to Anti like she is, but Anti's hand goes up in a gesture of stopping him. He considers ignoring the hand, but from the way he doesn't look away from her, Dark assumes he's planning something.

After a few seconds, her face scrunches up, almost as if in pain. Dark peers at her with mild interest, before noticing her clutch her head, covering her eyes. A low groan escapes her lips, and then, Dark sees red.

Dripping. Red starts to drip from her eyes, and ears, and he thinks he hears Anti snort at the display in front of him. Slowly, the girl collapses to her knees, and the blood seeps through her fingers, slipping down her cheeks and along the sides of her face, speckling her nightgown. 

She wails. Stella shrieks at the sight before her. “What are you doing to her!”

When the girl completely falls over, her eyes are a distant memory with a thick matter oozing from the now empty sockets. 

Hysteria fills the room again, loud sobbing coming from Stella once again. Anti lets out a low sigh, turning to her with exasperation. 

“I've had just about enough of this,” he growls, and Dark gets excited when he finally withdraws the knife.

“Finally going to get your hands dirty, darling?” he coos, wondering just how much blood he's going to get on him. The eye is a neat trick, but he's eager to see him stained red. 

“Shut up,” is Anti's reply, before in one swift movement, he slits her throat.

It's boringly anticlimactic. A few seconds of gurgled noises reach him before silence fills the room once more, only his breathing audible. The squelching sounds of Anti cutting out her eyes does little to entertain him.

“Anti,” he complains, because he'd come along tonight to see Anti in action. He's been on the receiving end of his surly words and stinging tongue—it's nothing he hasn't seen before. “Don't you know how to have any fun?”

Anti regards him with a curious expression, as he slowly pulls the eyepatch back on. 

“I do,” he says, and his answering smirk is stunning in the orange glow of the incandescent lights. 

~~

When Dark gets out of the shower, Anti's smoking in the chair beside the bed. He looks as pleased as Anti can be.

“What did that word mean?” Dark asks, and Anti blows out a long stream of smoke. 

“What did what word mean?” he fires back. “I'm pretty sure you know what _shut up_ , and _fuck off_ mean.” 

Dark scowls at him. “You know. That word you said. It sounded foreign. When you told me to have patience. I don't know what it means.”

Anti takes another long draw of the cigarette, at least having the decency to look thoughtful for a moment when he replies, “Guess you'll never know, huh?”

“I don't understand why you're like this,” Dark whines, flopping down on the bed. “Like, half an hour ago you were completely wonderful and now you're all aloof again.”

“I thought I told you I'm not here to stroke your fragile ego,” Anti says dryly. 

But he stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray, rising to his feet before circling around to his side of the bed. Dark sidles up next to him, and Anti doesn't breathe even a murmur of complaint. 

“You looked really beautiful tonight,” Dark says, low in his throat. He's replaying the images of him over and over in his mind, the glint in his eye that he'd never seen before. It's intoxicating, how he looked. “Could've done with a little more blood, but the crying was nice. Thought Fischbach was gonna have a heart attack with what you were doing.”

Without giving Anti a chance to answer, he leans up and kisses him, tasting the smoke on his lips. It's slow, messy, and warm, but gratifying all the same. 

Anti's fingers find his hair, and Dark pulls back to look him in the eye. With the gentlest of movements, Anti begins to stroke his hair, and Dark reaches up to pull the eyepatch off. 

“The fuck are you doing?” Anti hisses, yanking his hair back in an attempt to get him away. 

“Lemme see it,” Dark hums, pulling it off in a swift move of his hand. 

The other covers his eye with his hand. “Jesus Christ, Dark, you saw what it fucking did to that girl. I need you with your brain intact, if you even have one inside that head of yours.” 

A smile spreads across his lips. “That's the second time you've said my name. Sounds so pretty coming from you.”

He grabs Anti's wrist and pulls his hand away. The thrum of Anti's mortal pulse against his fingers is suddenly prevalent, and he grins when Anti opens the sickly eye, staring back at him.

There's a tense moment of silence while they look at each other, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Dark waits for a burst of pain, or even a crawling, tingling one that progressively intensifies. He thinks maybe that fear is Fischbach inside him, because he's certainly never been frightened of Anti, not even now. But none of those things come. Instead, Anti finally sighs.

“How long are you going to stare?” he grumbles, yanking his wrist from Dark's grip. “It's fucking weird to be looking at something this disgusting for too long.”

“You're still gorgeous,” Dark states matter-of-factly, as Anti grimaces at the compliment. 

It seems to dawn on the both of them that Dark isn't dead or dying after staring at Anti's literal septic eye for an extended amount of time. Something gleeful churns in Dark's human stomach, realizing what this means. Anti's eye can't hurt him. 

If ever he were unsure, which he hadn't been, but this seals the deal. Anti loves him. If his most secret and dangerous weapon can't hurt him, that means Anti doesn't want to.

“You look pale, baby,” Dark purrs, taking note of Anti's lack of color. It's not a trick of the light, and it's not just McLoughlin's complexion. 

Anti's cute when he realizes his secret's out of the bag. He grinds his teeth for a moment, as though mulling over his words, before spitting out, “Shut up.” 

It's one of his typical, clipped answers. Dark decides to play along and scoots down to lay his head in Anti's lap. 

Anti's touch soon follows, a fraction more hesitant than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we say this a lot, but thank you all so much for your comments, kudos, and fanworks. It seriously means so much and it really keeps us going--it's been a pleasure sharing this story with you and we can't wait to show you what else we have in store. <3


	16. our hearts start to bleed as our eyes they become wells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark fucks up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologize in advance for turning this into a bad soap opera. Also, all of you are going to hate us by the end of this. Probably. I don't know. Rating was also updated to explicit for obvious reasons, but no real porn (yet), sorry.
> 
> Thanks for being patient about our virtually nonexistent uploading schedule. It's almost like Mark himself is in charge of posting this fic.
> 
> Also, please continue sending us song suggestions for the playlist! We've been reading through the comments on the past couple chapters and we really appreciate everything!
> 
> Title is from This Could Be Heartbreak by The Amity Affliction (my favorite band in the world).

Anti isn’t in love. He isn’t even in like.

What he’s in is a mutually beneficial partnership between two people with much bigger outside goals. At least, he assumes that Dark has goals outside of wanting to fuck him senseless. He’s not really sure he cares.

Either way, things have shifted between them since Anti had thrown the remainder of his fucks to the wind and let Dark kiss him stupid after they’d murdered that guard. He only has so much mental energy in reserve, and most of that is spent either on tracking down victims or keeping McLoughlin at bay in their shared head.

Dark just isn’t worth the effort of resisting all the time.

Anti won’t comment on how attentive he is as a lover though—despite the fact that they’ve never even had sex. Dark as an individual is greedy, but his fascination with seeing Anti beneath him on a bed or a floor or any other horizontal surface transforms him into a spectator with awe-inspired, grabby hands.

“What time did you want to leave for the bar?”

“Hmm?” Anti peers down through his obstructing bangs at Dark’s face on his lap—McLoughlin was due for a haircut when he’d lost his body not long ago, but now it’s just getting a bit ridiculous—and twirls a lock of Dark’s faded red hair around his index finger.

“You’re not going alone?” he asks, genuinely surprised. “All you gotta do is kill one hooker, steal a kidney, and book it back here without getting your ass caught. I don’t actually need to chaperone you at a bar, do I?”

Anti hears the whine before it even comes. “Baby, that’s no fun.” Dark pouts at him like that’s something that’s ever worked to convince Anti before. “Besides, if I have to waste my time seducing a human who only wants me for my money, I wanna at least be able to look at you while I’m doing it.”

“I’m flattered,” Anti says derisively, combing through a knot in Dark’s bangs. “You’re never gonna let me catch a break, are you?”

They’re taking a bit of downtime in the hotel room before Dark has to head off to a local bar that’s just skeevy enough to be littered with no good drunks and prostitutes waiting to make a quick buck off of their wallets. Anti had been looking forward to taking a night off, since killing with his eye exhausts him and he’s been working nonstop since they’d hit the road together not long ago.

Dark’s supposed to be stealing a kidney from a hooker in order to satisfy the Sacral Chakra, which requires that the victim be sensual, sexual, and intimate in nature. Anti might not trust Dark to run off on his own most of the time, but he’s a big boy and he shouldn’t have to be babysat every time he goes somewhere armed.

“I just like having you with me when I have a good time.” Dark shrugs like he considers it a known fact. “I could drag one out to an alleyway and spoon their kidneys out in the span of about five minutes, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, it never hurts to have backup.”

“Uh-huh.” It amazes Anti how full of shit Dark is on a regular basis. “Backup my ass, you just want me to be your arm candy all night, don’t ye?”

Dark flutters his eyelashes up at him, the picture of innocence. “You’d be very pretty hanging off my arm, everyone would be jealous. Promise.”

Anti rolls his eyes, something that’s more of a habit when Dark talks then an actual response nowadays. “You’re going to a dive bar to kill a whore, not slow dance at a fucking black tie event. We’re not dating, _a mhuirnín_.”

“Says you.” Dark makes a rude noise, then sits up from Anti’s lap abruptly, turning to face him. “When are you gonna tell me what the hell that means?” he complains.

Anti looks at him with a raised eyebrow, hands closing around empty air.

“What are you talking about?” He plays dumb, stealing Dark’s innocent expression from moments ago and wearing it as his own. Having the upper hand is always rejuvenating.

Dark’s mouth twists unhappily.

“You know what I mean,” he says, poking Anti in the chest. “That thing you just said—I heard you say something like it the other night, when we went after that psychic girl. Why won’t you tell me what it means?”

Anti tilts his head, his smile sly and serene. “If I didn’t explain it to you then, I’m sure as hell not going to now. Get used to disappointment.”

He can feel the waves of confusion and irritation coming from Dark, pressing in on Anti from all sides, and it’s strange to be so connected to someone he’s not even sure he likes most of the time.

“I’m going to figure it out anyways.” Dark sets his mouth in a firm line, eyes narrowed and red again. “Secrets aren’t fun, Anti.”

“They are for me.”

“You’re being rude.”

“I’m always rude.” Anti kind of wants to laugh, but this whole exchange is a little too domestic for his blood. “What were you expecting from me?”

Dark blows out a breath and his fringe feathers up into the air in a wispy curtain. He sounds like a disgruntled horse.

“Too much, apparently,” he mutters, and kisses Anti.

It’s a new thing he’s doing now, letting Dark kiss him without making a fuss, kissing back until the aggression that’s pent up inside of the both of them rises or dies like a soft blue flame.

Dark is less scary when he’s like this, distracted from his normal thirst for violence and mayhem. Anti kisses him back because it’s safer than the alternative, because Dark is dangerous and unpredictable and Anti no longer has the luxury of distance to guard him.

His eye is useless against Dark, the biggest possible ‘fuck you’ that the universe could spit at him, and it makes Anti sick to think about it. His only weapons are his cunning and the knowledge that giving Dark the attention he craves is enough to sway him from getting too violent.

Dark’s obsession with him is the only thing that keeps Anti safe—and every obsession eventually meets its expiration date. Until then, Anti feeds his addiction in the hopes that it’ll buy him another day of safety.

It doesn’t hurt that Dark is beautiful and he only wants to focus on Anti.

“Why’d you spend so long resisting me?” Dark lays him down and spreads out on top of him, kissing Anti too lazily to be overbearing. “I could have been kissing you for weeks before you gave in—I could have had you long ago.”

Anti’s a bit distracted by the hands on his neck and shoulders, and the way he can feel Dark’s tongue tracing the inside of his bottom lip, the sensations taking root somewhere distinctly not mouth related.

“I figured you’d be more annoying if I said yes,” he lies, breathless but matter of fact. “And I didn’t trust you anyways.”

Dark makes another noise, but whether it’s wounded or pleasured Anti can’t tell.

“I’m much nicer when I get what I want.” That’s not a lie. Dark’s very nice when he’s got his hands on Anti like this, anchoring them together. “And I want you. I want all of you.”

Anti can’t help it, he shudders. Dark notices.

“Look how you’re shivering under my hands.” He breaks away to run his fingers down Anti’s arms, rough and calloused against his skin. “I’ve never seen you so eager for anything, ever.”

“I’m eager for a distraction.” It’s not as callous as he’d like it to be—closer to an invitation than a blatant dismissal of emotion, but Dark has a talent for mixing up Anti’s intentions in ways he didn’t before.

There’s a reason Anti hasn’t let Dark go all the way yet, and it’s not because the idea still repulses him.

“You’re the distraction,” Dark says, belying his own words by short-circuiting Anti’s brain with another kiss. “It’s like you’re doing it on purpose.”

Anti sighs and presses a finger to Dark’s lips, trying to hide his reluctance. “You have somewhere to be soon, don’t you? A bar, maybe?”

Dark’s only warning is a swift grin before he nips at the pad of Anti’s finger. “ _We_ have somewhere to be, you mean. I’m not going alone.”

The way Dark says it, it doesn’t sound like a request and Anti groans.

“What’s in it for me?” he asks, curling his lip slightly.

Dark gives him a look. “What, murder isn’t a good enough reason to get out of bed and do something? Come on, Anti—I know you’re not tired, I can tell.”

“I’m tired of your face.” Anti shoves at Dark in tandem with his words, but it’s half-hearted and petulant. “G’way, I’m done with ye. M’not going.”

“Yes you are.” Dark pins him to the mattress with his hips, eyes smoky and hard. “If you try and resist you’ll regret it.”

Anti isn’t actually sure if Dark’s being serious or not, because Dark’s got a quiver of threats strapped perpetually to his back, and he picks them out and strings them up at his leisure.

“Try me.” Anti does not want to go. He wants peace and quiet, just for once.

“If you don’t come,” Dark’s words tunnel a hollow path in his gut. “I’ll bring a hooker back and fuck her on our bed.”

“What?” Anti suddenly feels like he’s made of quicksand and there’s a rock sinking in his throat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dark doesn’t waver. “I’ll make you watch us,” he continues, fingers tracing an aimless path on Anti’s collarbone. “I’ll make you listen to me fucking her into the mattress, and I won’t look at you, not even once.”

“Shut up, Dark,” Anti growls. He doesn’t want to hear this. Dark’s playing games again, ones Anti doesn’t know the rules to.

“You won’t be able to look away, not even when I make her scream.” Dark doesn’t get louder, just lower, heavier, a purr in Anti’s ears. “You think she’d be louder than you?”

“ _Dark_.” He’s annoyed sick already, hands ready to throttle Dark for even speaking up. “Dark, stop it.”

He doesn’t appear to hear Anti. “I doubt anyone’s louder than you, not even a paid whore.” Dark leans down until his mouth brushes Anti’s earlobe, and Anti can feel him smile. “I’ll kill her with my cock still inside her, and then I’ll make you clean it up.”

“I said shut the fuck up!” Anti grabs at Dark’s hand, clenching the fingers tightly in his palm and gritting his teeth. “Is this fun for you? Do you think I even care what you do with your dick?”

Dark just looks at him.

“You probably should,” he says, and shifts on top of Anti’s hips.

Anti has to tilt his head back and breathe in deeply, unable to distinguish whether he’s turned on or irate. Dark is hard between his legs, pressed up intimately against the skin of his abdomen where Anti’s shirt is riding up.

“You probably should,” Dark repeats, rolling his hips down into Anti’s, a hot, heavy weight. “Considering what I plan on doing to you.”

“Thought you were trying to make me jealous?” Anti stutters out an angry breath and his arms move of their own accord, latching around Dark’s broad shoulders.

“I am,” Dark hums into the stretch of his throat. “And you’re still here, so I think it’s working.”

“I fuckin’ hate you,” Anti whines, and rethinks his earlier actions, shoving at Dark forcefully. It’s a lot more painful than it should be. “Get off me, asshole. Fine, you win, I guess I’m coming with.”

“Told you.” Dark’s smug and satisfied, but he lets Anti roll out from beneath him. “I knew you were jealous.”

“I’m jealous of anyone and everyone who doesn’t have to put up with you,” Anti sneers, standing up and putting a safe distance between him and Dark’s hands. It doesn’t feel right.

“I still win.” There’s a smile pooling on Dark’s mouth and angry wasps swarm in Anti’s stomach at the sight of it. “You still want me to fuck you.”

Dark’s still visibly hard in his jeans, and Anti can see the way he thumbs at the button above his fly, teasing. He swallows hard.

“Are we going or what?” This room is suddenly suffocating, the air thick and pressurized in his lungs. “If I have to come we’re leaving right now.”

“So impatient,” Dark coos, and stands after him. “You’re getting more and more like me, sweetheart. Better watch out.”

Anti just grumbles, turning away from where Dark’s not so subtly adjusting himself, and closes his eyes. He strains to school his face into something much more passive, something Dark can’t turn into a joke or discover any cracks under which to worm his way beneath.

“I’m driving,” he grits out, snatching the keys and his eyepatch from the table and brushing past Dark. He ignores the way his skin prickles again. “I don’t trust you to keep us in one piece with all that blood rushing away from your brain.”

“Touché.” Dark doesn’t even sound offended. “Lead the way, babe.”

-.-

“I still have no idea why I’m here,” Anti grouches, turning the car off and pressing his forehead to the wheel. He doesn’t look at Dark. “You don’t need me.”

“Don’t be fucking stupid.” Dark sounds like he’s still smiling, and he probably is, the bastard. “You’re here because I asked you to be, simple as that.”

“I’m here because you coerced me into suffering through this,” he retorts, dry mouthed. He’s not really sure it needs saying. “Let’s just go in and get this over with.”

“Ah-ah.” The noise dangles in the air above Anti’s head, condescending. “I’m going in first, so no one questions whether or not we’re together. You need to wait five to ten minutes or so, then show up and scope out the place so nobody notices where I take the bitch.”

There’s condensation forming on the windows of the car, and the night is warm outside the cool air of the interior. Somehow, Anti can’t muster up the excitement he’d usually feel at being able to murder someone in public and get away with it.

“Fine,” he sighs, leaning back in the seat. “Go find your target and we’ll meet up outside when you’re done or whatever. I’ll step in if you need backup before then, and don’t let anyone see you—no security cameras, no drunk assholes, no showing off. We’re not staying to party with the locals.”

“One of these days I’m gonna take you out and you’re gonna have fun.” Dark slides from the seat and out the door, the metal creaking beneath his weight. “Mark my words, Anti.”

“Just go,” Anti snaps in return. “You’d better make this one quick.”

Dark slams the door again, too hard in the overcrowded lot and Anti wonders how he hasn’t broken half the stuff he touches. His concept of heavy versus light must be wildly different from that of an average human’s—hell, even Anti can’t claim to boast strength like that.

He watches Dark disappear into the flickering haze of neon signs and bar smoke, and rolls down the window just slightly, lighting a cigarette.

Blinking away the bright spots in his vision from the flare of his lighter, he stares out the windshield, carefully avoiding all eye contact with the mirrors. He can see a group of drunken patrons stumbling around somewhere a few rows down, but they’re not coming his way so he pays them no mind.

McLoughlin has been deathly silent since Anti had dropped the bomb on him awhile ago about the unlikelihood of his post-ritual survival, and it’s a little strange being unable to detect the presence of the human in his head. He doesn’t exactly miss the backseat commentary, but Anti likes things to be accounted for, and McLoughlin seems to have disappeared.

Anti tosses the lighter on the seat next to him and curls up by the window, smoke leaking out from the corners of his mouth.

Dark’s gonna be pissy about him stinking up the car with cigarettes, because it lingers in the upholstery and they have to spend more time than is healthy riding in this thing together, but Anti decides he doesn’t really give a fuck. He figures that the other demon can pay his dues in small ways if he’s going to try and get away with dragging him out to a shithole like this.

Anti generally makes a concerted effort not to be too dramatic, but he’s pretty sure he’s digging himself a hole directly to the seventh circle of hell when it comes to humoring Dark.

It’s not that he’s particularly smitten with the guy, but he’s tired of warding off unwanted advances and watching Dark get a little more tense every time Anti pushes him away. Dark is a spring, coiling tighter and tighter with every idle minute that passes, and the only things that can smite the hard tenacity in his eyes are murder and kissing Anti.

Anti doesn’t trust him, not one bit. He doesn’t trust anyone who can spout poetry in his ear one moment, and rip a man’s head clean off in the next. Dark’s only out for himself, to get his fix and stop the shaking of his addict’s hands, and he doesn’t take rejection very well.

Boundaries mean nothing to him, and while Anti doesn’t put much stock in respecting the rules of a society of individuals who are sadly unevolved, he prefers to be left alone most of the time.

Dark doesn’t care about any of that, only that he gets what he wants, and what he wants—apparently—is Anti.

That would be much less terrifying if Anti wasn’t as helpless in his hands as a baby bird on a sidewalk, now that Dark’s proven himself immune to his only unique ability. Given the intensity of Dark’s obsessions combined with the unpredictability of his mood at any given moment, Anti sees no reason why Dark won’t wake up one morning intent on mounting his head on a stick.

Kissing Dark is self-preservation, and having sex with him—well, that would be a cry for help if nothing else.

Anti’s cigarette is burning down fast, but he’s still got another few minutes before he even wants to think about getting out of the car, so he crosses his arms and leans his head against the window.

Admittedly, it’s nice having the attention that Dark lavishes upon him, but the shine wears off after a half hour or so of enraptured staring. Anti can’t bear to be watched, and feeding the attention whore inside of Dark is easier than leaving the room every hour or so.

Dark is pretty—no, fucking _gorgeous_ after a murder when all the lights behind his eyes are blazing, the full intensity of them directed at Anti on the way back to the hotel. He’s smooth tan skin and calloused hands, a little too much energy and bad humor that borders on inappropriate when he’s talking about death.

Dark clings to his chest like a limpet when they’re in bed, and he sweats like a fucking pig no matter how high Anti turns up the AC, but sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night just to make sure Anti’s still there.

It’s stupid is what it is, but Dark is stupid and Anti’s stuck with him until further notice.

He blows smoke out of his nostrils and doesn’t think about what will happen after, once he and Dark get their bodies and the humans are gone. Dark will want more, he’ll want forever, and Anti’s not sure he has room for that.

He’s not sure he’ll survive forever with Dark, and the odds really aren’t in his favor.

Still, he can have his fun in the meantime, when Dark’s not wrecking it singlehandedly by being a fucking prick and trying to act like whatever they have qualifies as an actual relationship. Anti doesn’t do jealousy. Seriously, he doesn’t.

It’s fun to screw with Dark’s head sometimes though, like when Anti pretends he has no idea what Dark’s pouting about on the other side of the bed, or the way Dark gets when Anti calls him names in his host’s native tongue. It combines Dark’s two least favorite things: being ignored and being manipulated, and Anti has to have his laughs where he can get them.

Nearly fifteen minutes have passed since he started on his cigarette, and Anti lights another one on the cherry red stump of the former. Dark hasn’t texted him yet to complain about his absence, so Anti can only assume that he’s preoccupied with someone or something.

Anti tosses the smoking cigarette butt out the window, and curls tighter into a defensive ball.

Dark doesn’t need him this time around. He can wait a little longer.

-.-

Five cigarettes and a leisurely scroll through McLoughlin’s Twitter account later—the human’s disappearance seems to have made a significant impact on his followers—Anti’s still holed up in the car and Dark still hasn’t texted him.

It’s been over forty minutes since he’d been abandoned in this muggy parking lot, and technically he was supposed to go find Dark half an hour ago, but nothing seems to be happening. Anti growls at the clock on his phone’s lockscreen and shoves it in his jeans pocket, stubbing out the half burnt cig in the ashtray and leaving it there.

Vulnerability skitters up his spine the second he shoves out of the car, tucking his chin down low on his way to the front entrance and conscientiously avoiding any eye contact with the straggling bar patrons. He doesn’t need to run into anyone that might recognize him as McLoughlin or a missing human whose face may have been all over the news, despite the fact that he’s in America at the moment.

Hands buried deep in his pockets, Anti shoulders his way through the doors, nodding at the—probably underpaid—bouncer to his immediate left. It’s a rundown joint if he’s ever seen one, but Dark was apparently short sighted enough to pick a place that’s a local favorite with the town drunks. The place is packed with surly looking rednecks collecting empty beer cans and shouting at grainy televisions mounted in every corner.

He watches a guy in a blue flannel shirt stumble face first into a weathered dartboard, and grinds his teeth to smother the hiss of irritation in his mouth.

This is why he wanted to stay in and away from the dregs of humanity.

He doesn’t see Dark, but there’s an unimpressed bartender passing out cheap beers like they’re candy and largely ignoring the rowdy guys in the back of the place. Anti seriously detests the idea of having to ask anyone if they’ve seen Dark around, because he’d rather not draw any more attention to either of them than he has to, and he already sticks out like a sore thumb.

He’s pretty sure that getting questioned by an intoxicated asshole for wandering around aimlessly is even further down on his list of exciting prospects, however, and Anti reluctantly takes a seat on a scarred barstool.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” The bartender is unsurprisingly astute, as the stereotype goes, and Anti’s good eye flicks in her direction.

“Do I need a flannel and a few less teeth to order anything?” he asks. He suspects at least this woman probably understands the pain of dealing with horny guys who don’t understand the meaning of the word no, which is something Anti can relate to all too well.

“That’s some accent you got there,” she comments, wry and wide eyed. “What brings you out this far?”

“Just business.” Anti shuts her down pretty quickly, but he uncrosses his legs and faces her head on. “I’m actually looking for my partner—he came in about forty-five minutes ago? Red and black hair, kinda Asian, shirt too small for him?”

The bartender gives him an unreadable look, and Anti feels nervousness build in his throat. He forces it back down, but it threatens him still. Dark does not blend in very well anywhere he goes, and if he made a name for himself two minutes after walking in here Anti’s going to make him sleep in the bathtub.

“Y’all are two peas in a pod, you know that?” Anti wonders if she only speaks to her patrons in question marks. “I saw him, yeah. He left the main area about fifteen minutes ago, headed towards the back. Had Daria with him—one of our ‘regulars’ around here.”

She winks like she’s passing him a particularly dirty secret, but Anti doesn’t feel very conspiratiorial. Daria must be the hooker Dark had set his sights on after scoping out the place less than an hour back, but the fact that Anti hasn’t heard from him at all is slightly worrying.

“Is there something back there?” Anti’s stool creaks dangerously beneath his weight, and the bartop feels sticky. He’s going to need to shower for a week after just being in here. “I was supposed to meet him here twenty minutes ago, and it’s pretty important.”

The bartender snaps her gum and makes a face down at the glass she’s cleaning. “Honey,” she says, buffing out a scratch that’s probably been there for years. “You can go back there and investigate all you want, but you and I both know that you probably won’t like what you find. There are a couple rooms outside that we rent out to patrons and girls like Daria just down that back hall past the restrooms, and you’re welcome to join if that’s what you’re into.”

Her face screams ‘judgment-free zone’, but her voice has a warning tone to it, and Anti grimaces to himself. He wonders if Daria has herpes or something, or if they’re in the part of America where drunks still try to shoot ‘sexually explorative’ individuals.

“Thanks,” he says, but he’s pretty sure she doesn’t believe the unfazed hum in his response.

Anti vacates the barstool as quickly as he came, making a beeline for the shabby corner the bartender had indicated, and bypasses the restrooms and the back entrance of the bar, trudging into a gravel lot that looks even shadier than the one out front.

There’s a small strip of rooms, separate from the actual main building, and they look like they were converted from miniature warehouse sheds about twenty years ago. Anti’s skin crawls just looking at them, as if he can see the filth and dirty money being exchanged through the metal exterior.

Dark is going to owe him so fucking hard for this.

Anti notices the lights on behind the ratty looking curtains of the second ‘room’, and squares his shoulders, praying that he’s not about to barge in on some potbellied fifty-something fucking a hooker on a bed of unwashed sheets.

The doorknob is worn like it’s been used one too many times over the years, but it turns easily beneath Anti’s fingers.

“Dark?” he calls, the name reluctant on his tongue. He’d rather not identify either of them just in case, but then again, no one’s going to know Dark by the name he’d picked for himself. “You’d better be in here. I’m tired, _a mhuirnín_ , let’s get this over with.”

The door sticks a little, but it swings open with an ugly shriek and Anti stands in the threshold, eyes adjusting to the shitty light illuminating the scene in front of him.

Dark’s there and he’s not alone, but that’s about where Anti’s expectations come to a grinding halt, wailing in his ears like the screech of brakes on asphalt.

It’s like the reveal scene in a bad soap opera, where the suspicious boyfriend walks in on his significant other to see them getting down and dirty with an insignificant other, and all hell breaks loose.

Normally, Anti would balk and run at even the prospect of his life approaching anything close to a bad soap opera, but this time around all he wants to do is start throwing punches.

Dark’s hunched over the bed and a body—whom Anti assumes is Daria—that is very much alive and squirming beneath him, but not in pain.

At the sound of the door opening, Dark’s head shoots up, lips spit slick and swollen, and Anti sees seven shades of red in his good eye alone.

Further inspection reveals that Dark’s pants are undone and he’s spilling out of them, cock hard and flushed red in his fist as he jacks himself off, kissing the woman beneath him like he’d kissed Anti earlier: heavy and intent.

The hooker’s dress is sliding off her shoulders like the straps aren’t meant to stay in place for longer than it takes to move from client to client, and her hemline is shoved up past her thighs, underwear either long gone or never present to begin with.

“Anti.” Dark straightens a little, and he’s shoving himself back into his jeans suddenly, hands fumbling with the fabric. “Where the hell have you been, baby? I thought you were supposed—.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Anti’s knees are locked into place, and he can’t be sure if the sensations he’s feeling are numbness or extreme discomfort, but they’re crawling up every inch of his skin.

Dark, for the first time since Anti’s known him in person, closes his mouth with an audible click.

Anti glances at his crotch again, taking note of how his button’s still undone and his belt is hanging limply from the loops, as awkward as this entire experience.

“Hey.” The bitch—Anti is not going to use her name anymore, not after this—sits up, arms covering her chest briefly and craning her neck to check behind Anti for strangers outside. “You boys know it’s double for both, right? You didn’t tell me you had a friend.”

She looks at Dark accusingly, prompting him to tug his gaze away from Anti’s heated cheeks for a second, and that’s just long enough to make a difference.

Anti shuts the door behind him with one hand, barely registering the horrid sounds coming from the metal and wood scraping against one another. Dark’s already staring at him again, but there’s a look on his face like he knows what he’s done and when the latch on the door clicks, his head tilts back in resignation.

“Baby,” he starts, but Anti does not want to listen. He doesn’t care what excuses Dark has, or why the palms of his hands are tingling in a way they hadn’t when he’d killed that psychic woman or the guy in the alley back in Ireland.

He wants to see blood.

“You’d better keep her quiet,” Dark tells him, hands hanging uselessly by his sides, but Anti doesn’t pay him any more mind. He can’t even look at him without feeling like he’s going to shake apart.

“Bondage is triple,” the woman says, clearly unaware of what’s going on, and Anti reaches out to touch her cheek.

“How about knife play?” he asks, watching the woman’s eyes widen in a fraction of a second.

“I’m not into blood or pain play,” she says slowly, leaning away from the touch of Anti’s fingers. He grips her chin tightly.

“That’s too bad.”

There’s a crack and a scream as Anti’s hand closes around the hinge of her jaw, and the bottom half of her face skews a little, the bone broken beneath the strength of his angry grip.

She wails like a banshee, awful and twisted and writhing in his hold, body tensing as she tries to escape despite the way her face is screwed up in agony. Anti’s hand clasps around her throat and forces her backwards onto the sheets, a cheap, glittering swath of anguish against the coarse green of the bedspread.

Anti has no idea exactly what he’s doing, but the girl is still screaming and she’s fucking _loud_. He’s strong enough to hold her down one handed, but not long enough to keep her alive to feel exactly what he wants to do to her.

He unsheathes his knife from the back of his left boot, and it glints above her chest as she sobs, unable to shake her head without her eyes rolling wildly in her skull from the pain of her broken jawbone. Anti hears a shrill ringing in his ears, blocking out the sound of her protests and the creak of the old bed as he points the knife at her abdomen, and he wonders if this is how Dark feels when he kills.

 _‘Stop thinking about him,’_ someone says, distant and foggy. It sounds like McLoughlin, but he hasn’t been active in days, not since the first time Anti gave in to Dark’s advances.

 _‘Stop thinking about him!’_ It’s definitely McLoughlin’s voice, but the thoughts are Anti’s, because McLoughlin doesn’t care about Dark or his treacherous words or the way he was lying about only needing Anti. McLoughlin doesn’t care that Anti’s a dog on a leash when it comes to making Dark happy—counting on Dark’s obsession with him to keep him alive.

This whore is ruining the only guarantee Anti has at safety and success, and Anti wants her dead and gone.

“Shut up,” Anti snarls in a voice he doesn’t recognize, and then he buries the knife to the hilt in between her ribs.

It takes all of his strength to keep her from twisting out of his weight on top of her, but Anti doesn’t stop there. He won’t rest until she’s quiet, until she’s got no tongue left to scream with and no hands left to resist him.

He stabs her again and again, and if there’s one thing Anti can’t stand it’s getting his hands dirty, but this is worse. What he’s trying to combat is a thousand times more terrifying than a blood soaked shirt, and all he wants to do is _live_ , dammit. He wants to win and he wants to survive, and Dark just doesn’t give a damn.

 _‘Why are you doing this?’_ That’s McLoughlin’s real voice this time, unmistakable and anxious in the back of his head, but the fear is smothered by the gush of blood between his fingers.

 **‘Because I’m supposed to be in control here,’** the girl isn’t fighting anymore, but Anti is still moving, carving and tearing with both hands into the gaping wounds in her torso. **‘I won’t be at the mercy of anyone who can’t be trusted.’**

 _‘You’re afraid of him,’_ McLoughlin says, somber and shrewd. Anti’s fingers clasp around something firm and curved, and he pulls, slicing at the muscle and tissue with his nails.

Kidneys. They need kidneys. _He_ needs kidneys, for the ritual that he’s going to finish in order to get what he deserves.

 _‘You need Dark but you’re afraid of him,’_ McLoughlin repeats, and his voice is infuriating in Anti’s brain, a head-splitting echo smearing pretentious assumptions across his psyche. ‘ _Whatever happened to ‘Dark would never hurt me?’’_

Anti feels bile rise in his throat and he digs deeper, searching for the second kidney, because they need two and Dark can do whatever the fuck he wants with his, but Anti isn’t pulling any more punches.

 **‘You don’t know anything.’** He doesn’t say it so much as think it, but McLoughlin takes it as a direct enough answer.

 _‘I know that you’re scared,’_ McLoughlin sounds far away, like he doesn’t really want to be a part of what’s happening in the present. _‘You’re fucking scared of everything and you don’t trust Dark to see you through to the end. You’re predictable, arrogant, spineless. A mistake.’_

Anti tries to block out the sound, but it’s nearly impossible and he can’t seem to find the off button that’s usually lingering there, so tempting and within reach whenever McLoughlin is talking.

_‘If I was Dark, I’d cheat on you too.’_

Anti rips the second kidney free with an aggravated howl, and reels back from the hooker’s body, chest gore spattered and heaving. He’s up to his elbows in viscera, and there’s a carcass torn to shreds in front of him, but Anti feels like he’s the one who’s been gutted.

He backs away, knees sliding from the bed, an unsteady sway in his shoulders as he grips the knife and turns to look at Dark.

He isn’t doing anything, he’s just staring, and his eyes are cold and black.

He’s looking at Anti like he’s never seen him before, but there’s no evidence of shock on his face. Dark is blank, hard marble and mussed hair, perfect and terrible and the source of all of Anti’s grief.

Anti jerks away and focuses back on the task at hand, sifting through the visceral splatter on the bedspread and fishing both kidneys out like they’re dirty prizes at a crooked carnival.

“There,” he says, tossing them both on the table in Dark’s direction. “Now we’ve got two—saved us both some dirty work.”

 “Anti,” Dark doesn’t really sound apologetic, just stern. Anti does not even give two fucks what he has to say. “Anti, you’re shaking. Baby, stop it.”

“I’m going to the car.” Anti wipes his hands off on the edge of the hooker’s dress, the part that isn’t saturated in blood already, and muggily notices the sticky pink film that clings to his fingers. “Have fun dumping the body.”

“Anti!” Dark’s voice rises, seething at being ignored so suddenly after an outburst so feral, and Anti entertains a slight thrill of satisfaction. He wants Dark to suffer. “What’s wrong with you?”

Anti doesn’t answer him, because Dark doesn’t deserve a response. The room door slams on his way out, and he kicks gravel into the air, rounding the side of the building and bypassing the main bar altogether.

 _‘I think you’re going to regret this,’_ McLoughlin ponders absently, poisonous and calm from his front row seat. _‘There’s only room for one unpredictable asshole on this trainwreck, and it’s not you.’_

Anti needs a cigarette and a twenty four hour nap. He hides his quaking hands in his pockets and bites his tongue.

 **‘The only thing I’ve ever regretted is not doing that earlier,’** he says, but it tastes like a lie and McLoughlin just laughs at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, GG and I apologize. Much love to you all, and please tell me what you think in the comments. Mark/Jack will definitely be making big appearances in the near future!
> 
> Edit: Also, I feel that I should note that Anti's treatment of the prostitute in this chapter does not actually reflect either mine or GG's opinion of sex workers. Anti and Dark are bad 'people' with no respect for humanity--GG and I try to be opposite of that.


	17. now the old king is dead (long live the king)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "One minute I held the key  
> Next the walls were closed on me..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very tired.
> 
> I wrote this whole thing in like, 2 days, most of which was compiled from snippets I'd sent Quin throughout the week. I don't think I'll be able to maintain my upload schedule of Tuesdays, mostly because I work on Weekends and have virtually no time to finish everything before Tuesday's rolling around. Unfortunately. I will be updating weekly, though, so you can always look forward to an update--some day of the week. I'm really sorry about that. 
> 
> But! This chapter was super fun and I think you guys will love the next few chapters (they're especially interesting for me and Quin). Thank you all so much for your continued support, it means so much. <3
> 
> Title chapter and summary from "Viva La Vida" by Coldplay.

The air is thick with tension and Dark wants to smash the car window.

Anti drives back to the hotel in silence, not so much as giving him a nod of acknowledgment when Dark had returned from disposing of the fucking hooker. He'd barely closed the car door when Anti shifted into drive, pulling out of the parking lot at an alarming speed. It hasn't gone down much since then, as Anti's puffed cigarette after cigarette at each of the stoplights without rolling down the window, leaving Dark to choke on the tension and Anti's forsaken, nicotine smoke clouds.

Ever since Anti had gutted the woman with little regard for how messy he was being, billions of thoughts had whizzed through his mind about what's wrong with the other. He'd expected Anti to get into a bit of a tizzy when he'd seen him with the hooker, but nothing like this, nothing like he'd witnessed.

It's been a fantasy of his to see Anti stained red, but not like that.

A portion of him is angry, filled to the brim with a sea of conflicting opinions. Anti had been mad. Not even in his usual, annoyed way, but in a way that screamed frustrated. Not two hours before this Anti had wanted nothing to do with him, hadn't want to even come to the bar with him and now he's acting like a brooding beast. Anti knows that if he had just said the word, Dark would have dropped everything for him, but instead, he has to go and pretend like it wasn't a big deal when it is, apparently. 

Sure, maybe he shouldn't have been trying to sleep with the bitch, but he had to put his energy somewhere. It hadn't even meant to escalate that far, but Anti had taken his sweet time getting in, and he'd gotten carried away.

He'd only wanted Anti to see just how much he loved him. 

Dark loves Anti—he does, he really does. Anti is his entire world and it pains him to think that Anti doesn't realize that. This body is unfortunately still mortal—it has just enough blood to run to one head. And Anti drives him _crazy_ —not letting him go all the way had been too much of a strain on this skin. 

He really doesn't see why Anti is in such a sour mood. Anti should know better than to think that girl meant anything to him. Not when he sees the fucking stars in Anti's eyes no matter what he does. 

_Why don't you just admit you're a thirsty bitch?_

Dark scowls. Now is not the time for Fischbach to be bothering him. 

**Any love I have is for Anti alone** , he replies, as if he has to justify himself to this pathetic mongrel. **I don't expect you to understand.**

_I understand enough_ , Fischbach says. _I understand enough about our shared brain to know you don't know what love is. Not if you can't even be faithful to the one you kiss the ground for._

**You don't know anything** , Dark hisses to the backseat fucker in his mind. **Don't pretend you have any idea what Anti and me have**.

_As far as I can see_ , Fischbach counters. _That's nothing. Whatever you may have had is gone now. You made sure of that._

Dark clenches his fists until the nails dig too deep into the skin of his palm. He feels a prick, and the trickle of blood soon follows. 

He tunes Fischbach out for the rest of the car ride, determined to no longer humor him and what he has to say. 

~~

Anti slams the door when they get back into the hotel. Once the locks click into place, Dark lets loose.

“What the _fuck_ , Anti?” he snarls, because he has no idea what's gotten into him. “A week ago you said you didn't give two shits about what I did with my dick, and now suddenly you're ripping open my kill like you've got no fucking sense.”

Anti's gaze is sharp as he takes off the eyepatch. Ever since discovering that his eye is useless on Dark, he has no problems taking it off in his presence. He doesn't bother to answer as he shoves past him, pressing the palm of his hand to his shoulder in the process.

Dark grabs him, yanking him back. “Fucking answer me, I'm serious.”

“I don't care what you do with your dick,” Anti growls, and his words are potent, a sharp poison that sinks into him with little regard for how it will affect him. It hits him in waves, full force and he can hear Fischbach's haughty laughter, as though he has any room to be giving his opinion on the situation. “I just care that you had a job to do and you didn't fucking do it.” 

“Bullshit,” he hisses, and his grip on Anti's wrist tightens. He wants answers and he's not going to let him weasel his way out of this like he always does, like he always allows Anti to do when he wants to dodge one of Dark's advances. “You don't get your hands dirty. Tell me why you ripped that bitch open. I deserve to know.”

“You don't deserve anything,” Anti seethes, yanking his wrist away with as much force as he can muster. Dark lets go, but doesn't take his eyes off of him. “You don't deserve anything except a bullet in your head since you _clearly_ only use the other.”

His eyes are wild, something untamed lurking in the sickly green and dampened blue, and it's one of the few times in their short trip together that Dark has been unable to read him. Anti is reserved, a closed book, but Dark's always been able to figure him out, always been able to understand what was going on in that stolen head. But not now. It's like he's shrouded himself completely from him. 

“I don't understand why you're acting like this,” Dark snaps, and he's suddenly regretful that he let go of him. He needs to bear pressure down on something, lest he break something, and he wouldn't break Anti's wrist. Not yet, at least. “You complain about me being a fucking child yet here you are, acting like a spoiled brat who didn't get his way.”

“Boo hoo,” Anti taunts, and the words alone are enough for Dark to want to strike him. But he keeps it under control, barely. “Did I hurt your pretty little feelings by stealing your kill? Forgive me, but I didn't see much killing, so _someone_ had to proceed with my plan.” 

The _forgive me_ is sarcastic, that much Dark can tell. Anti's so goddamn annoying sometimes, so focused on achieving his goal rather than enjoying the fact that he's in a human body currently. They could do whatever they want in these skins, and Anti's squandering it by being so tunnel-visioned on finding a body that's his and his alone. 

_You're useless. Even Anti is finally realizing how much of a mistake it was to recruit you._

“Shut up!” he shouts, and though the comment isn't directed at the other, Anti's gaze hardens even more. 

“You're the one that needs to shut up,” Anti spits, turning his back on him. “I'm done with this conversation.”

The gesture enrages him. Fischbach laughs somewhere deep inside of him again, but it's like he's underwater, distorted and unclear whereas Anti is in perfect sight. 

“Don't _fucking_ turn your back on me,” Dark growls, and his fingers tingle again, and _god_ , he needs to break something. Right now, it's looking like it's going to be Anti's fucking face. He doesn't want to hurt Anti, but he's the only available outlet in the room. “You're not walking away from me until you explain what the hell you're so pissed about!”

“I'm not pissed,” Anti snarls back. “I don't care about anything you do. It doesn't concern me, and I don't care that you're huffing and puffing because that's _your_ problem, not mine. I told you from the beginning I wasn't going to pander to your fragile ego, and I'm not starting now.”

Dark watches him put another cigarette into his mouth, and he's wondering how he hasn't run out of them yet, considering he's been chain smoking them nonstop since they got into the car, and Dark knows for a fact that it hadn't been a full pack when they'd gotten to the bar. He crosses the length of the room and rips it out of his mouth before he can light it, crushing it between his fingers before tossing it onto the carpet.

Anti only has a second to look livid at his actions.

Fisting his hands in the fabric of Anti's shirt, he trembles, resisting the urge to throw him across the room as he grinds out, “Are you mad that I didn't kill her in a time _you_ set? I was _going_ to kill her, I don't know why you're mad. She was a quick fuck because you wouldn't let me have _you_.” 

“So this is my fault?” Anti gawks, and he almost laughs, but it doesn't quite come out. “Because I wouldn't let you stick your dick in me, it gave you a reason to be a complete fucking idiot?” 

_He's got you there. He caught you with your pants down, asshole. Why don't you just admit you lost him?_

“It's like you're upset because I was tired of getting myself off in the shower,” Dark says, practically screaming to drown out Fischbach's voice, taking note of the way Anti's eyes flash in disgust for a brief second. “Is that it, baby? Are you mad because I stopped looking at you for two seconds?” 

His silence is his answer. Dark figures from the way Anti's eyes narrow that he's concocting some sort of surly retort, but the brief pause in words is enough to let him think, too.

Anti's frustration, the killing, the avoidance of the question. It falls into place. 

The aggression must leave his face, because Anti sneers, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You're actually jealous!” he laughs, because how fucking rich is that? He's spent all this time trying to get Anti to realize his feelings, and all it took was a goddamn hooker? He would have fucked at least ten others if meant getting Anti sooner. “Christ, Anti, why didn't you just say so?”

If looks could kill, he would be dead where he stands. Anti's gaze is the darkest and most toxic he's ever seen it. 

“You don't know your ass from a hole in the ground," he says lowly, slowly, as if jabbing needles into his skin with every enunciation. “Where the fuck do you get the idea that I'm even remotely jealous of a whore you found in a bar?”

“Because you wanted it to be you,” Dark drawls, and oh boy, this could not have gone better. He'd originally intended Anti to be a little miffed, but _this_? Anti really does love him. “You wanted to be that whore. Kissing me and having me touch you in all the places that would make you scream.”

“I don't want you to _ever_ put your hands on me,” Anti snaps, as if Dark doesn't already have his hands on him, clearly able to break his neck if he makes even a single wrong move. Not that Dark will, but the implication that he _could_ is palpable between both of them. “Don't try and pin your delusions on me.”

He would kiss Anti if he thought the other wouldn't bite him. But maybe it's worth it. 

“Baby,” he coos, and the frustration still boils, but it's come to a softer simmer. “Did you think I didn't love you anymore?”

“It would be a blessing,” Anti grouses, tugging at Dark's hands, presumably to untangle them from his shirt. “If you stopped your petty infatuation long enough to get us out of these flesh sacks.”

_All he wants is a new body. He doesn't care what happens to you._

Fischbach's speech is drowned out by his desire to assure Anti that never once did he stop loving him.

“Oh, baby,” he hums, removing his fingers from his shirt to cup his cheeks. If anything, that puts Anti less at ease. “That whore didn't mean shit to me. It's only ever been you. You don't have to be upset.” 

Anti shoves him away, smoothing out the wrinkles that Dark's fingers left on his clothes. “I don't care, when are you going to get that in your fucking head? You could go out, fuck whoever you want, and catch something awful and I still couldn't care less. I'm only pissed because you wanted to fuck the one we needed the kidneys from.”

“Things could be so much easier on the both of us if you faced your feelings,” Dark reprimands, but he can feel himself growing impatient again. His tolerance for Anti's bullshit is already significantly reduced due to the events of the night. “I know you're upset, but it didn't mean anything, okay? I love you, and I know you love me, so it's fine. Calm down.”

“You don't get it, do you?” Anti spits out. “I don't have _feelings_. Certainly not for you. You're nothing but a means to an end—what else would you fucking be for? Did you really think I'd love you after all of this, that you were worth keeping around?” 

Something hard and uncomfortable steals the oxygen out of his stolen lungs. Anti's always said these sort of things, but never has he said them more vehemently than this. 

“You don't mean that,” he says lowly, and his throat feels like sandpaper. It's an aching sensation, one Dark's not accustomed to, and his first defense is to strike out at the object of his distress. “You're just upset. It's okay, I understand.”

Anti looks exasperated. “Do I really have to spell this out for you? I don't love you and I never will.”

“Shut up,” Dark's knuckles itch to make contact with something. “Anti, I'm warning you.”

“Use your fucking head, _a mhuirnín_ , what use could you serve after this? When I get what I want?” Anti doesn't stop, the words rattling off his tongue like bullets from a machine gun, a barrage of unending torment. 

Dark slams his fist into the wall. “I said _shut up_!”

The sheet rock crumbles beneath his hand, and an indentation marks the spot. There's silence between them for a second, uneven breathing mingling with the blood rushing in Dark's ears.

Anti looks like he's gearing up to say something else, and Dark can't stay. If he stays in this room with Anti as they are now, he'll do something terrible, perhaps the only thing he'll ever regret in his life. Curling his fingers, he turns on his heel, and storms out of the hotel door. 

He ignores Fischbach's callous taunting as he slams the door. 

_I told you so._

~~

_So when are you going to pull your head out of your ass and realize Anti's a lost cause?_

**I don't answer to you** , Dark sneers at him. **You don't know anything about either of us**. 

And he doesn't. Fischbach can pretend all he wants that he knows even a minuscule amount of what him and Anti are truly after, what they want in life, but he doesn't. Anti isn't and won't ever be a lost cause. 

Anti is his. He's always been his. Fischbach can moan and groan about Anti hating him, but it isn't true. 

The night air is cool against his skin, and he wonders if he should steal some liquor from the convenience store down the street from the hotel, because maybe it'll shut down these goddamn nerves of his and it'll take the edge off of whatever ridiculous misconceptions the voice in his head is trying to feed him. 

_You're afraid, aren't you?_ Fischbach replies, eerily calm. Dark has never heard him this calm, not once since his takeover. _You're afraid you've done something you can't fix, aren't you?_

**Anti loves me** , he snarls back, though whether the words are truly to Fischbach or himself, he can't be sure. **I'll fix this. I love him and he loves me, that's all that matters.**

Dark swears he hears the bitch chuckle, somewhere deep in the back of his head. _You tried to stick your dick in someone else not even a day after coming within a hair's inch of fucking him into the mattress. I certainly wouldn't love you after that._

**I'm not looking for your love** , Dark simpers, hot and full of a shame he hopes that Fischbach doesn't notice, too enraptured in taunting him with thoughts that aren't true. **I'm not even looking for Anti's. I have it. I already have Anti's love.**

_I'm not even sure you know what love is_ , Fischbach's voice is sharper, more prominent than it's ever been. It startles him. _How could you? You're a monster. Monsters destroy. You really think you're capable of doing anything but destroying him?_

**I would never hurt Anti** , he hisses, because he wouldn't. Anti is the most precious thing in his life. He would never harm him, not on purpose. 

_Says the guy who was so eager to break his wrist. And his face_ , the other reminds him. _And the one who had to leave the goddamn hotel because you thought you'd snap his neck._

**Are you trying to make me afraid of you?** Dark goads, and it's funny, he thinks, how Fischbach's trying the same mind games he'd used not so long ago. But he's not good at them—he's got no power over him. **It won't work. As if I could ever be scared of you.**

_Then look me in the eye and tell me Anti could ever love a fucker like you._

~~

He sucks in a breath. It hurts. He's not used to this anymore. 

Jack. Jack.

_Anti. Anti._

It's like he's on fire, skin taut over his bones—he's trembling, and it's not from the chill of the night. But it's solid. It's real. It's all him. 

He needs to get back. 

With heavy feet, he drags himself towards the hotel. His appearance will be short-lived, this he knows, but hopefully it'll be long enough to prove that they can win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated. Thank you so much.


	18. don't go, i can't do this on my own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all have our horrors and our demons to fight.  
> But how can I win, when I'm paralyzed?  
> They crawl up on my bed, wrap their fingers around my throat.  
> Is this what I get for the choices that I've made?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this being so damn late. I've been so exhausted this week I couldn't even think about writing hardly anything, but here I am with exactly 7k of a new chapter, so I hope you enjoy. Thanks so much for all the support and the song suggestions--hopefully we'll be getting around to compiling some of them into a playlist soon.
> 
> There is a warning for slight Dub-con in this, but it's nothing too severe, I promise.
> 
> Title and summary are from Don't Go by Bring Me the Horizon. I highly recommend the song as atmosphere for both the chapter and the story as a whole.

Anti wonders if it’s possible to suffocate in a cloud of your own cigarette smoke.

He’s certainly trying, and the possibility would be comforting if he didn’t have bigger things to worry about on the horizon.

 _‘How far do you think you’re gonna get with Dark gone?’_ McLoughlin is a tame, idle presence in his head now, back to offer his unwanted commentary on all the bullshit tragedies of Anti’s short, sorely limited existence.

 _‘I’m just saying,’_ he continues before Anti can even tell him to passively shut up. _‘You’re gonna have to put up with him again sooner or later, if you ever want to make shit happen.’_

Anti taps the ash from the edge of his cigarette and stares out into the navy blue sky. The night is coming to an end, and Dark’s been gone for hours now, probably taking out his aggression on a convenience store or a few straggling clubgoers.

 **‘Aren’t you a little too casually invested in my goals for someone in your current position?’** he points out, unwilling to pick a fight with the voice in his head. He’s had enough drama for one night, and he doesn’t have endless reserves of hostility to tap into like Dark does. **‘You’re still going to die, you know.’**

McLoughlin scoffs, and if Anti’s brain were a coffee table, the human would be resting his feet on it.

 _‘Forgive me if I’m a little skeptical of some body swapping ritual you uncovered in the coding of some bullshit computer game,’_ McLoughlin says, and he’s obviously had time to think about this. Anti envies his unreasonably laid-back demeanor. _‘You know, in retrospect I’m kind of embarrassed about how terrified I was of it initially. Waking up next to Dark every morning more than blows that whole experience out of the water.’_

Anti’s silent for a moment, and he knows McLoughlin’s waiting for some kind of response. There’s really nothing to be said.

 _‘Touchy subject. Right.’_ McLoughlin still sounds maddeningly unbothered by the literal shitstorm that took place only hours ago. _‘I forgot you were actually getting attached.’_

 **‘I forgot I asked for your opinion.’** It’s ten year old sass-level at best, but Anti’s brain is wiped. He doesn’t want to think about anything, much less how hard getting anything done is going to be with Dark raging and moping in perfect succession over the next few weeks. That is, if Dark comes back at all.

 _‘He’ll come back.’_ McLoughlin almost sounds reassuring. Anti wonders when he started thinking so loudly. _‘Where else would he go without getting himself in too much trouble?’_

 **‘You don’t know Dark like I do,’** Anti grouses, but it’s sort of a lie. McLoughlin’s been exposed to almost as much of Dark as Anti has. **‘Besides, what makes you think I give a damn? I’m safer without him around anyways.’**

The last part, at least, is true. In reality, Anti’s been biting his nails through stormclouds of petty rage about whether he’d just royally fucked himself over or not by telling Dark off. He doesn’t regret it exactly, but if Dark comes back in through that hotel door and tries to bludgeon him to death Anti’s going to have his own impatience to blame.

It’s hard to pin anything on Dark when he refuses to take responsibility for the things that he does, and even harder still with the knowledge that consequences aren’t something the guy acknowledges as a reality.

 _‘Maybe.’_ McLoughlin does the mental equivalent of a shrug. _‘Maybe not. It depends on how much pride you have in that tiny little black heart of yours. Groveling for your life is totally an option—if you want him to think you’re a total pussy.’_

Knowing Dark, seeing someone—Anti especially—begging for their life would only make him hungrier to break necks. That, and Anti still has his pride, even if he’s got nothing else to his name at this point.

 **‘If you think I’m apologizing to him for anything you’re absolutely mental.’** Anti drops the cigarette butt into the ashtray by the bedside and sighs heavily. **‘I didn’t do a damn thing wrong. He’s the one who went thinking with his dick when he should have been using common sense.’**

 _‘Define common sense.’_ Now McLoughlin’s sounding kind of smug, a hint of sarcastic amusement leaking out from behind his words. _‘Somehow I get the impression that you and Dark have vastly different interpretations of that word, seeing as how you’re mad he didn’t wait around for you to finally spread your legs and he’s pissed that you don’t let him get away with whatever he wants.’_

 **‘Once again, I don’t remember asking you for your opinion,’** Anti counters, but he knows avoidance is tantamount to an agreement in McLoughlin’s book. **‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’**

 _‘Suit yourself.’_ McLoughlin is back to sounding bored. _‘Denial isn’t a good look for you, just saying.’_

Anti putters around the room a little bit, brushing his teeth and kicking Dark’s clothes from last night aside with a little more aggression than is strictly necessary, but it makes him feel better.

He tries to pull out his notebook, marked up with possible targets and neatly organized in ways that would make Dark’s head spin, but the words swim in front of both his eyes and he can’t focus for shit.

It’s abysmally quiet in here and Anti is strangely unused to the silence now.

There’s a bang on the door and Anti nearly jumps a mile, knocking the notebook to the floor and bashing his knee against the tabletop. It’s not his most graceful moment, but the sound from the hallway was shaped like a fist on wood and there’s only one person with good reason to be beating down his hotel door.

Dread fills his stomach, and he considers not answering at all, because Dark didn’t take a key card with him when he stormed out and it’s unlikely that the front desk will issue him a second one with the room under Anti’s alias.

There’s a tiny sprig of relief there too, fighting for air beneath the oppressing growth of apprehension and exhaustion, but Anti smothers it without a second thought. He’s got no reason to be glad about Dark returning, not so soon after their encounter earlier this evening.

Anti rises from his chair, plucking the notebook from the ugly carpet and tossing it back onto the table without a second thought. He doesn’t want to do this, but if he makes Dark wait the door may not survive their stay, and Anti is too damn tired to go about getting them a new hotel.

He opens the door one handed and cracks it just enough for Dark to know he’s there, and then he’s turning away, unhappy with the idea of looking at Dark’s face right now. He’s still angry and sick of being browbeaten into submission by someone with less self control than a goddamn two year old.

He plops down on the bed with heavy, tight shoulders and a headache that’s needling its way to prominence behind his bad eye. Anti wants to sleep and remain unconscious until he wakes up in a new body a million miles away from his perpetually smooth talking, too buff, red-haired, own personal ball-and-chain.

“I wouldn’t go to sleep right now if I were you, Anti.”

Anti freezes.

That’s not Dark’s voice.

He would know Dark’s voice anywhere, no matter the sound or the place. Anti has listened to every word, every syllable Dark has rambled at him in the past month or so and he knows the sound of Dark’s voice like the back of his hand.

It’s the same voice he’s fallen asleep with and woken up to every morning since he’d flown in to America, and it’s the one he heard just hours ago, so incredibly taut with rage it was nearly unrecognizable.

Anti turns around so slowly he thinks he can hear his bones creak, and there’s Dark’s body in front of him, blocking the light from the lamp in the corner.

It’s not Dark’s voice.

_‘MARK!’_

McLoughlin _wails_.

Anti feels like he’s at gunpoint, and he can’t tell if the taste in his mouth is terror or pure, undiluted anger.

“Where’s Dark?” he asks, like the human in front of him is going to happily provide him with an answer. “What did you do to him?”

Fischbach doesn’t answer, and it’s definitely him, because he’s breathing hard and there’s no light in his eyes at all. There’s nothing of Dark there, for all that they share the exact same face, and it’s like someone’s made an angry wooden puppet out of Dark’s head and arms.

The sight of him is nauseating.

“I asked you a question.” Anti’s voice doesn’t tremble as he takes a step closer, the carpet like sandpaper beneath his bare feet. McLoughlin might be crying, but Anti isn’t exactly sure. “What did you do to Dark?”

Fischbach looks worn thin and ragged, but his anger burns brighter than the sorry state of his hijacked limbs.

“I sent him to hell,” Fischbach says, triumphant and proud. Anti balls his fists, stopping only feet from the human’s aggravated stance. “I sent him back where he belongs—where you _both_ belong.”

“You can’t kill Dark.” Anti knows Dark isn’t gone. He’s too powerful, he’s been in control for too long. Whatever loophole Fischbach managed to exploit, it’s narrow as the eye of a needle, giving rise to the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. “You’re not strong enough. Bring him back.”

Fischbach tilts his head so condescendingly it almost looks like he could be Dark, but the smile is all wrong.

“No,” is all he says.

Anti lunges for him, McLoughlin’s screams drowning out the sound of the stunned white noise in his head, and his hands meet flesh.

-.-

Fischbach’s not unconscious for long.

He hadn’t been hard to take out, because Anti is faster than any human even at their best, and Fischbach had barely been holding himself upright.

The human is groaning and blinking himself into stubborn wakefulness, and Anti hadn’t held out much hope that Dark would be the one to wake back up in his body, but the disappointment is still sour in his gut.

“Wha…what the fuuuuck?” Fischbach’s tongue sounds fuzzy and numb in his mouth, and Anti is genuinely surprised that he’s managing to hold onto control even throughout the potential head trauma. Anti might not be as strong as Dark, but he’s more than strong enough to knock out your average human.

He thinks about Dark’s face, about how it looks exactly the same as Fischbach’s, and how that doesn’t matter at all because Anti can still tell the difference between them.

Dark’s eyes are brighter; for all that they’re red or black in color when he’s feeling particularly incensed or dramatic, while Fischbach’s are just glassy and jaded. There’s no edge to the curve of Fischbach’s mouth when he glares up at Anti from his hunched position in the chair, handcuffed to the armrests. Dark would be laughing at him by now, just for trying to act so serious, but all Fischbach does is grunt at him accusingly.

“Bring him back,” Anti orders, because he likes to get right to the point if he can.

Fischbach continues to stare at him groggily, and Anti wonders how much emotional damage Dark had caused while at the forefront of Fischbach’s brain. He knows well enough that the human before him has enough personality to keep talking for hours on end, but there’s no sign of it here in this frosty motel room.

He crosses his legs on the mattress, preparing for a standoff and a one sided conversation. Fischbach is looking anything but cooperative.

McLoughlin is whimpering—there’s really no other word for it—inside of Anti’s head, and it got annoying after the first thirty seconds or so. He’s talking to Fischbach like the man can hear him, and Anti is seriously considering shutting him away again, just so he can focus on what really matters at the moment.

“Did you bite out your tongue when I wasn’t looking?” Anti leans forward a little when Fischbach remains staunchly silent. “Or did Dark completely fry your ability to follow orders?”

Fischbach’s eyes trail lazily around the room, refusing to look at Anti, and he wonders if possibly having a concussion will affect Dark in any way once Anti gets him back. At the very least, the fact that Dark has no need for the human’s glasses is probably skewing his perception of reality.

“Do you think he’d beg to get _you_ back?” Fischbach still sort of looks like he’s staring to Anti’s left, but that could just be because Anti’s wearing the face of the guy he’s in love with. “Somehow I get the feeling that your Dark has too much pride for that sort of thing.”

That’s not the response he was expecting.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “You tell me. You’re the one who’s been tangoing with him in that head of yours for the past couple of months. Shouldn’t you know how he thinks by now?”

“Shouldn’t you?” Fischbach fires back, but it’s less of a direct hit and more of a sloppy swing. He blinks heavily and tugs at the handcuffs binding him to the chair. “Last time I checked, you were all set to sleep with him before he went and tried to stick his dick where it didn’t belong.”

Anti scowls.

“We’re not here to talk about me,” he points out, thinking about the knife hidden in his boot—the same one he’d used to slash that hooker open at the bar. “In fact, you shouldn’t be here talking at all. What did you think you were going to accomplish by trying to take back the reins, anyhow?”

Fischbach snorts, and his gaze seems a little more focused, but only slightly.

“Well, for starters, I was really planning on enjoying the look on your face when you realized he was gone.” The human seems to be drawing confidence from something, maybe the brief grasp at power he’s managed to steal for himself. “And holy _fuck_ , did I enjoy it too. It’s too bad Dark couldn’t see how scared you were that he might be gone forever.”

That snags Anti’s attention, however much he hates it.

“Is he even listening right now?” He has to know. It makes a difference whether or not Dark can even hear the things they’re saying, or if Fischbach’s strong enough to shut him away the way Anti really should be doing with McLoughlin at the moment.

“Is Jack listening?” Fischbach’s voice cracks a little, and McLoughlin does the equivalent of an angry mental shove in response. He’s desperate to talk to Dark’s human half, though Anti’s not planning on giving him access any time soon.

 **‘It’s not that I’m not sympathetic,’** he informs the human in his head. **‘We’re kind of in the same position right now, you and me, but I’d really like to have Dark back and your sweetheart is making that incredibly difficult.’**

McLoughlin doesn’t seem to appreciate his platitudes.

 _‘Go fuck yourself,’_ he hisses, and Anti ignores him.

“I’ll answer that if you tell me what Dark’s doing now.” Anti turns back to his conversation with McLoughlin’s significant other, genuinely curious about whether or not Dark is even conscious at the moment.

Fischbach sneers at him, tilting his chin upwards as though even having to answer Anti is beneath him.

“Your degenerate lover can hear everything we’re saying right now,” he admits reluctantly, after a moment of silence. It may as well be a confession that Fischbach’s control is too weak to last, and Anti’s stomach swoops dangerously.

“Now, tell me where Jack is,” Fischbach presses, hands clenching around the armrests. There’s no use in struggling, but the human doesn’t seem to take external cues very well, environmental or otherwise.

Anti stands up from the bed, straightening his back and gazing down at the human who’s acting as a barrier between himself and Anti’s partner.

“Nowhere you’ll ever find him,” he replies quietly.

Fischbach reacts violently, straining against the cuffs and baring his teeth. He looks like an exhausted beast, hunted down and shackled and fighting against the inevitable.

“You don’t own him.” Fischbach’s words grind against the stone stillness of the air. “Jack’s body isn’t yours. You can’t just steal his legs and walk around in them like they’re your own.”

Anti raises an eyebrow at him, because that’s rich coming from the guy who had the nerve to beat Dark into a corner with no prior warning.

“Apparently, I can,” he says, crossing his arms. “Besides, Jack and I are getting along pretty well these days. I mean, he has his less than civil moments sometimes, but I have to give him credit for being less of a nuisance than he could have been.”

 _Less of a nuisance than you clearly are_ , he doesn’t say, but he’s sure Fischbach can hear it anyways.

“If Jack’s keeping quiet up there, it’s only because you’ve got a gag on him, you fucking asshole.” Fischbach clearly wants nothing to do with small talk or pleasantries. Anti isn’t at his most patient tonight either, but with the human as weak as he is, it’s merely a waiting game before Dark shoves his way back into reality.

“Once again, we’re not here to talk about me or Jack,” Anti reminds his unwanted guest. “We’re here to talk about how you’re in my way, and how I’d like my partner back _now_.”

There isn’t even a moment of hesitation. “You aren’t getting shit from me.” Fischbach’s mouth snaps shut on the last word, final. Anti bristles.

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear.” He’s aware he’s falling prey to a number of supervillain clichés at the moment, but Anti can’t bring himself to care. He needs Dark back and if this human wants him to be the bad guy? He can be the bad guy, no sweat.

“This isn’t a question of whether or not you’re going to lose this fight.” Anti unsheathes the knife with a dexterity even he’s proud of and points the tip of it at Fischbach’s throat. “This is a question of how easy you’re going to make it on yourself and me before Dark inevitably takes his control back.”

Fischbach doesn’t seem rattled, and maybe it’s because he already knows everything Anti’s saying is true.

“There’s nothing you can do to me.” His mouth is a hard line and his eyes are dark flint. The expression looks so wrong on his face that the livid flame in Anti’s gut climbs higher, burning his esophagus.

Even when Dark’s angry, there’s a tint of humor to his voice, something black and tar-like, sticking to his words and pooling them into something more infuriating than his usual brand of insanity. Anti hates it and misses it all at once.

“You can’t hurt me.” Fischbach continues in a slow growl, knowing and sickly. “If you hurt me you’ll damage this body, and you’ll damage Dark. Pretty sure that defeats the purpose, but I could always be wrong.”

It’s true enough, though shallow wounds would heal the moment Dark came back into power, but those are of no use to him. Torture will get him nowhere, and his eye does not work on this body.

“Tell me then.” Anti grips Fischbach’s shoulder in his hand and presses the knife even closer to the thin skin of his throat. “How it was that you managed to fight Dark in your own head and win? I’m curious to know what it was that finally made him snap.”

Fischbach smiles, and it’s so sudden that Anti feels it in a slick slide down his throat.

“He let me in.”

“What?” Anti wants to recoil back, but that would give Fischbach more satisfaction than he deserves. “That’s a fucking lie. Dark would never give anyone the advantage over him, much less _you_ of all people.”

“He did.” Fischbach hasn’t stopped his inane smiling, and Anti wants to carve a frown into his face so he’ll never grin like that again. “He gave in and let me take control. I wore him down until I had him convinced that you didn’t want him around anymore. He was tired and I told him he was too stupid to see what was right in front of him. I told him he was a monster.”

Anti rolls his eyes, but Fischbach’s words settle heavily in the pit of his stomach.

“Using a man’s own breed against him?” he shakes his head. “I can’t say I haven’t done it before, but Dark knows he’s a monster, okay? He _relishes_ in it. You’re not gonna hurt his feelings by telling him he’s a bad person.”

“I didn’t set out to hurt his feelings.” Fischbach’s mouth twists like Anti’s alluding to child’s play instead of the real thing. “I set out to shrink his ego back to where it belongs. Dark doesn’t give a shit how I feel about him, but he cares a hell of a lot how you do.”

Anti’s own laughter surprises him.

“You were there for the whole thing, right?” he asks, shocked into bitter humor. “You watched him fuck around and waste my time, dragging me outside just to make me wait in a car so he could screw some whore he was supposed to eviscerate? I’m not a fucking _object_ —Dark doesn’t love me and he’s not going to use me as an accessory.”

Fischbach’s stare meets his head on, blank stone clashing with wild disbelief.

“I saw enough,” he tells Anti, teeth gritted. “I just don’t care. I’m not here for you or for Dark, not really.”

Anti’s mouth flattens.

“You won’t be here much longer at all,” he says, and he blinks away the incredulity from seconds ago. He needs to get a better grip on himself. “Once Dark and I complete the ritual, once we have all of the necessary ingredients, you and McLoughlin and these half baked carcasses are going to burn out forever.”

“You really think you can do that?” Fischbach is just taunting him now, and there’s no sign of Dark trying to claw his way back to the top. “You really think we’re going to lose the fight over what’s rightfully ours? You came here uninvited and took what wasn’t yours, and now you’re playing a losing game while _we_ have the home field advantage. You and Dark are never going to make it to the end.”

Anti turns away, his back to Fischbach’s snarling, smug face. He cannot sit here all night and beg and wait and sleep off the exhaustion from his fight with Dark and Dark’s subsequent loss of power. He can’t wake up tomorrow to Fischbach sneering at him from that chair with Dark nowhere in sight.

He’s going to have to pry Dark out, both hands this time.

“You’re wrong,” he says, pivoting back on one foot and looking down at Fischbach behind him. “You’re wrong about everything. About me, about Dark, about the future. We’re going to win, and you’re going to be taking a front row seat; VIP access to the big finish.”

Fischbach opens his mouth like he’s about to say something snarky, but Anti cuts him off before he can even begin.

“The only problem is, I can’t do anything until you give me back what belongs to me.”

Fischbach’s face falls just short of surprise, but the smugness from earlier remains starkly in place.

“Do you actually care what happens to him?” he pries hesitantly; clearly unsure whether or not to trust his own eyes and ears. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and gotten yourself attached when you thought no one was looking.”

Anti comes closer again, re-sheathing his knife and putting on his best smile, harmless and soft.

“What I want is none of your business,” he says, reaching out to touch Fischbach’s face. The stubble Dark never bothers to shave away feels no different beneath his hand when Fischbach’s the one wearing it. “Unless, of course, you’d like it to be?”

“What?” Fischbach is honestly confused now, drawing back from Anti’s touch with a grimace. “Don’t confuse my curiosity for actually giving a shit about what happens to you or your would-be fuck buddy.”

“That’s too bad.” Anti has never in his life imagined he’d have to do this, but Dark is listening and Fischbach’s body is the same one he’d been kissing not twenty four hours earlier. He can make it work. “Were you ever this rude to ‘ol Jackaboy when he was trying to share his feelings with you? No wonder he didn’t believe it when you finally told him you loved him.”

Anti traces the smooth, pink set of Fischbach’s lips with his fingertip, and he prays that Dark is just beneath, scrambling to feel Anti’s hands on him like this again.

“You’re not my Jack.” Fischbach spits the words at him like they’ve been poisoned. Anti feels a thrum of desire in the depths of his chest, and this time he knows the feeling isn’t his.

“No,” he murmurs deliberately, fingertips dancing beneath Fischbach’s chin. “But I look like him, don’t I? I have his voice and his face and his hands, his pretty mouth.”

“Shut up.” Fischbach’s rebuttal is immediate and Anti gets a sudden, sick sense of déjà vu to the last real conversation he’d had with Dark.

“I know you were in love with him,” he continues, because he’s exhausted all his other options and there’s one thing Anti knows Dark always responds to. “I know you still are. I heard what you said to him on the phone, right before Dark cut you off. It was cute.”

Fischbach holds his breath as Anti slides onto his lap, knees bent, chests pressed too close for comfort and Anti can see the way the closeness rattles him.

“Get off me.” Fischbach’s words are angry but his voice is weak. Anti isn’t above using this body as a weapon. “You’re not him.”

“Yes I am.” Anti drags a finger across his collarbone, unable to fight off the feeling of just how wrong all of this is. “Jack and I are one and the same, just like you and Dark. Our wires are just crossed a bit differently.”

Fischbach shakes his head, and Anti stops him with both hands resting on his cheeks. “That’s fucking impossible,” Fischbach grates out, sounding pained. “Jack is the sweetest, softest man alive and Dark is the complete opposite of me. I’d never kill anyone, I’d never torment someone’s psyche just for the hell of it, I’d never _cheat_.”

The last one hits like a lead bullet and Anti growls softly to himself, but he remains focused on how similar Fischbach feels to Dark underneath him, how there’s virtually no difference between them if he ignores the things the human is saying.

“Dark doesn’t love me.” Anti says it in passing again, one thumb grazing gently over the rise of Fischbach’s cheekbone. Those eyes are all wrong, and Anti hates himself for missing the kind that don’t look at him like he’s an abomination. “You can’t really cheat on someone you’re not committed to. But none of that matters because I know how you think, _Mark_. I know how Jack thinks. I know what he’s thinking right now.”

“Don’t.” Fischbach’s voice is harder now, but Anti is not losing the upper hand here by turning the conversation back to Dark’s transgressions. McLoughlin is this human’s biggest weakness and Anti is going to use him ‘til he’s dry. “Don’t keep bringing him into this. Just let me see him.”

Anti ignores him.

“You know he can hear everything you’re saying, right?” he asks, low and bright. “He’s talking to me, right up here.” Anti taps the side of his head and smiles, all sunshine and sweet eyes and Fischbach looks suddenly devastated. “He wants to see you _so_ badly.”

“Oh my god, _please_.” Fischbach sounds like he’s in actual pain, and Anti wonders if maybe he is. “ _Jack,_ oh god.”

 _‘Please let me see him I’ll do anything,’_ McLoughlin starts to babble, spurred on by Fischbach’s desperation and the way Anti’s breaking down the barriers between himself and his human half, letting him feel the way Fischbach’s skin drags against his. It’s the most of freedom McLoughlin will ever taste again. _‘I’ll do anything, I swear. Just let me talk to him this once. I miss him so much.’_

 **‘Sorry.’** Anti presses his forehead against Fischbach’s— _Mark’s_ , and breathes in. He smells the same as Dark does, oppressing and woody with an afterthought of sweetness. It suits Dark better than it suits his human counterpart. **‘I can’t. I don’t trust either of you and I’m tired of waiting around for your lover to give up the ghost.’**

McLoughlin is wild, so close yet so far from freedom and the man he loves, and he beats against the invisible barrier inside their shared mind, relentless.

“He really, really misses you,” Anti whispers against Mark’s mouth, warm and intimate. His hands fist in Mark’s shirt and their hips slot together. “He’s begging me, pleading just to be able to touch you.”

“Let him out.” Mark’s lips brush against his but his words are broken, demanding. “Let us go. Anti, _please_.”

Anti’s breath catches in his throat, and the silence lingers for a moment.

“Let Dark out,” he counters, tugging on the fabric between his fingers.

“Never.” Mark’s voice wavers on the word, and Anti nods to himself.

“Okay then,” he murmurs, and then he kisses Mark.

It’s hot and hard, a war between two people who don’t quite match up in temperament or preference. Mark feels and tastes like Dark beneath his mouth, but he’s not. He’s something else, and Dark kisses with more fervor. He kisses like he owns Anti, like there’s nothing in the world he’s more interested in doing.

Mark isn’t struggling. He’s weak beneath Anti’s hands, his skin and libido mistaking them for McLoughlin’s, and his responses are hungry but aggrieved. Anti can hardly imagine the clusterfuck his mind is becoming beneath the meeting of their mouths, and he can only hope it’s enough to lure Dark back out.

“You’re not really him,” Mark pants out, breaking the kiss as Anti grinds down into his lap. Mark’s getting hard, though not of his own free will, Anti suspects. “I don’t want you. No one wants you. I want _Jack_.”

Anti hisses as rage stings his fingertips and tongue, and he’s getting painfully hard somehow as well, despite Mark’s cruel words.

“I never said I wanted you either.” He bites into Mark’s bottom lip and the human’s hips buck upwards but with a stutter, like he’s losing control of them. A bloom of hope flowers in Anti’s chest. “I want Dark. I want him back. Only him. _Bring him back_.”

His touches turn to claws, and Anti can feel his own fingernails lengthen. It’s not _fair_. None of it’s fair, the way he’s been crammed into this two-dimensional body and lied to, strung up like a puppet and forced to listen to Dark whisper false nothings in his ears like he even understands the meaning of the word ‘commitment’.

Anti knows dedication, he knows fervor and desire and the drive to obtain something he craves and deserves more than anything else in the world, and yet no one seems to care what it is that he actually wants.

His nails dig into Mark’s collarbone and break the skin, and his tongue lengthens in his mouth, teeth scraping together as wrath bubbles in his stomach and lungs. His eye is bleeding, though Mark doesn’t seem to be screaming in pain and Anti hates that, all of a sudden. He wants Mark to suffer for daring to stand in his way, and his throat itches to howl in indignance at his own inability to do anything about it.

He wants Dark back, _now_.

“I’ll peel your fuckin’ eyelids back until the only thing you’ll be able to see are your own eyes bleeding,” Anti hisses, scathing and acid-hot. “I’ll make you chew your own nails off until your fingers are bloody stumps of bone and you can’t think about anything except giving him back to me.”

McLoughlin’s protesting reaches a new pitch of horrified pleading, and Mark shudders beneath his hands, veins standing out on his forearms like dark ribbons.

“You can’t have him back!” he shouts, voice rising to match the sound of McLoughlin in Anti’s head. “You don’t deserve to be free if I’m not! If I can’t have Jack then you won’t get Dark!”

“ _Watch me.”_ The threat drips down Anti’s tongue like poison and Mark goes rigid in the chair, his eyes suddenly brighter than before as he stares back at Anti, resistant and terrified.

A moment later he’s sagging in his seat, head tipping forwards and Anti rears back. He peels himself from Mark’s lap, and watches with a heart beating so fast it feels like McLoughlin’s trying to punch his way out.

Mark’s head hangs low and limp for a moment, and he doesn’t appear to be breathing. Anti isn’t either.

Then his entire body jerks upwards, hair a sweaty mess and eyes flashing as Dark floods back into existence, muscles visibly tensing beneath his skin.

Anti just breathes outwards, the words streaming out unbidden.

“Fuck, _mo milis_ , it’s you.”

Dark cracks his neck as though he’s just woken up on the wrong side of the bed, and frowns deeply at Anti.

“When are you finally gonna tell me what the hell that means?” he groans, tugging at the restraints. “My vast array of knowledge is limited, you know.”

“Shut up.” Anti is more exhausted than he’s been in weeks. He doesn’t want to listen to Dark speak at all, and briefly considers leaving him in the chair with the addition of a homemade gag.

“I think I’ve been quiet for long enough.” Dark glares at him, but there are tendrils of relief in his words and Anti is angry, so angry at this fucking asshole for daring to even look at him like that after everything he’s been through in the past day.

“I said shut the fuck up,” he says, and falls backwards onto the bed, slumping over his own lap like a robot powering itself down. “For once in your life, Dark, just shut the fuck up.”

“Really, Anti?” Dark raises an incredulous eyebrow and his wrists go slack in the cuffs. “You’ve just gotten me back and now you want me to go away again? I could’ve sworn you just spent the past half hour threatening my host with bodily harm if he didn’t release me. Or was that all a beautiful dream?”

Anti’s mind sticks to the word ‘dream’ like superglue, and he thinks wistfully of the pillows not two feet away. He wants to sleep until morning tomorrow, with no fear of waking up to find Dark with dull eyes and a duller tongue.

“Are you just gonna leave me here all night?” Dark acts like they’d never fought, like he hadn’t almost sunk his fist into Anti’s face just hours ago. “I’m always up for bondage, but I don’t think now’s the best time.”

“You’re still talking.” Anti’s legs carry him up off the bed and towards Dark. “If I seem like I give a damn, it’s just because you’re hallucinating.”

He leans forward to unlock both sets of handcuffs, dutifully ignoring how close Dark angles their heads together. He still doesn’t trust that face, especially not after seeing how it looked while Mark was wearing it.

“If I am, then I’d rather it never end,” Dark replies in a tone of voice that means he’s thinking about being smarmy; rubbing his wrists once they’re free of the warm metal. “You’re the best hallucination I’ve had in ages.”

Anti stares at him long and hard, and then points a tired finger directly in front of his nose.

“I’ll truss you right back up if you don’t bite your tongue.” He can’t really manage an actual threat, but Dark finally seems to take pity on his battered mind, and wisely says nothing.

Anti runs a single hand through his hair and tosses the cuffs onto the nearby table, unable to look away from Dark as he stands up again, straight backed and moody as ever. Anti can see the way the repossession has rattled him though, his feet shuffling on the floor as his eyes focus in on Anti’s face.

Dark watches him and remains uncharacteristically silent, still fussing at the chafed skin where the metal had cut into his wrists. Anti’s torn between wanting to look closer to make sure he’s really him, and avert his eyes until he forgets the way Mark had sneered at Anti’s attempts to urge Dark back into control, mocking him.

There’s a considerable ember of fury still lingering somewhere in his gut, but the thought of fanning it into a full blown flame is too much effort for him to even consider at the moment. He craves oblivion from pointless emotions and the stress of nearly losing the only useful asset he has on hand.

“I’m going to bed,” he snaps with more heat than is entirely necessary, but he can’t help himself. He’s on the defensive now more than ever, and tentatively he feels along the barrier he’s built between his own mind and McLoughlin’s. It’s still holding strong and McLoughlin is emanating silent waves of grief, but Anti can’t trust even the inner workings of his own stolen head.

Nothing feels secure.

“This won’t happen again,” Dark says, low and serious, as though promising Anti anything is going to reverse the way it felt to look into Dark’s eyes and see nothing of him there at all. “Anti, it was a mistake. They can’t stop us, neither of us. We’ve already won.”

The pillow is cool beneath his cheek and Anti wonders how much of the fatigue in his bones actually belongs to him.

“We’ve won nothing,” he says, and the declaration sticks soundly in the silence. “Nothing is a victory until they’re both dead and gone for good.”

He closes his eyes, intent on ending the conversation, because there’s nothing more to be done for tonight.

The mattress dips behind him and Anti tenses, waiting for the heavy weight of Dark’s arms to loop around him. He’s still furious at Dark, his bitter rage at their brawl from earlier still making a home in his veins, but right now, he’s not sure if he can ignore the closeness like he’d planned. None of it feels organic, real. Everything they have is borrowed, and Mark’s appearance was a stark reminder that the world wants them to give it all back.

Dark’s hand is lead heavy in his hair, fingers raking through the strands freely and Anti fights off a shudder. He— _they_ —are so close to freedom, to autonomy of body and mind, and to see them so nearly fall short of what he’s been grasping for all this time—it’s infuriating.

Anti is not fragile, and neither is Dark—not really. Their minds are strong enough to withstand any number of mental barrages, but their human bodies are just shells. They’re paper thin and they burn out quickly, ripping at the seams and flagging hopelessly until they impart their own weaknesses onto Anti himself.

Emotions, pain, exhaustion—they’re all human, all things that Anti is not.

They’re all things that he’s allowing, ever since he flickered into wakefulness in the deepest recesses of McLoughlin’s mind.

He doesn’t hate the way that Dark presses close to him these days, intimate and almost comforting, not the way he would have when they’d first met. He no longer scoffs at every untimely endearment that Dark uses to describe him, like he’d made a point to in the past.

Anti is changing, slowly, into something twisted and complicated and completely unlike whom he was just two months ago, and _that_ he hates. He wonders if Dark feels it, if he’s always felt this way right from the beginning. He wants to ask, but asking would mean admitting and Dark clings to confessions with a tenacity that would daunt any creature.

Dark’s a warm, hard line against his back, no space between them and Anti can’t imagine how his brain must work. He knows Dark must feel _something_ for him, but it’s wrong somehow, photo negatives of soft kisses and hands clasped over tabletops, all inverted.

Dark is so far from being human and yet, he is nothing like Anti.

Anti doesn’t notice his hand moving until it’s covering Dark’s on his abdomen, fingers slotting together seamlessly until they form one fist. He has questions and accusations and things he’s going to have to ask Dark, once he sleeps off this entire evening. Dark isn’t getting off so easily, not after how crystal clear he made it that he doesn’t feel love like he says he does.

Dark squeezes their hands together in acknowledgement, and Anti’s mind feels a little hazy, like he can’t quite understand why he’d reached out to begin with, but it doesn’t hurt. He leaves it there, the only touch he’s ever chosen to initiate with Dark that wasn’t violent or dismissive, and refuses to look further into his own mind for fear of what he’ll find.

Anti dreams that Dark’s eyes are gone, bled from his skull by the persuasion of Anti’s deadly gaze, and the only ones left to replace them are Mark’s, judgmental and cloudy.

Someone screams inside of his head, but this time it isn’t Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient and I hope this at least made sense and wasn't too ridiculous. We really appreciate all the support y'all have given us and we still enjoy writing this universe so, so much. Much love!
> 
> EDIT: I'm genuinely curious to know: how many of you think that Dark/Anti are going to win versus Mark/Jack (or somewhere in the middle). Not who you're rooting for necessarily, but who you think is likely to win, if anyone.


	19. as i rise up through each floor, shit gets dark when you lose it all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Behind every door is a fall, a fall,  
> And no one's here to sleep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sliding in a week later with my 3.8k chapter which is shorter than I'd like it to be (and shorter than recent chapters) but I felt like it flowed better this way, and I hope it comes off that way as well.
> 
> I'm so sorry that our upload schedule is utter shit, but as always, thank you for being so patient. We try to upload twice a week, but lately it's been once a week and you guys have been incredibly understanding, which we both appreciate immensely. We love this story to bit and we love all of you--it really means a lot. 
> 
> But I'll stop blabbering and get onto the chapter. Please enjoy! 
> 
> Title chapter and summary are from Naughty Boy (ft. Bastille)'s song "No One's Here to Sleep"

His fingers itch.

Goddamn it, goddamn it, _goddamn it_.

Anti strolls into the hotel, lazily tossing a notebook of information on the bed before grabbing his cigarettes from the table. He's been smoking so much more lately, and Dark can't help but think it's an excuse not to be near him. He's surprised his fucking teeth haven't rotted out of his mouth yet.

"The fuck is this?" Dark asks, tired of tiptoeing around him, tired of pulling back sharp words just to hear Anti speak. The other has been tormenting him with the least amount of words possible. Only a couple of days have passed since the _Incident_ , and it’s driving him up the wall, the way they’re treating each other. 

It doesn't help that he's been sleeping like shit. Anti comes to bed late from god knows where, slipping in only when Dark's barely conscious. When Dark wakes in the morning he's gone again, to some far place enjoying life's simple pleasures without him and it pisses him off to no end.

"My next kill," Anti says, and there's not much else to elaborate on. All of the notes are written in the book, a firm _fuck you_ , because now he has no reason to keep talking. He starts to go out onto the hotel balcony, pulling back the glass door.

"Shut the door," he growls, and isn't surprised when Anti doesn't listen. So he hisses, angrier, "Anti, I'm fucking serious."

Anti at least does him the courtesy of glancing over at him, cigarette already hanging from his lips like he hasn't smoked in days. It's been too long since he's been able to just stare at him, because Anti's so aloof that he hasn't gotten the chance to look at him properly, let alone touch him. Though the feeling of Anti's skin is immortalized in his memory, he'd still like the reminder.

He fucking misses him.

Dark considers asking nicely, but Anti's never been one for such formalities. So instead, with as much force as he can muster, he spits, "Come back here."

For a second, he thinks he sees Anti smile, but perhaps it's an illusion, before Anti climbs out onto the terrace and shuts the door behind him.

Dark swings his arm and breaks the lamp on the bedside table. It shatters against the ugly olive-colored walls.

_Still think he loves you?_ Fischbach hums, and it's horrible hearing him again. He hasn't heard him in the last few days at all, not since he resumed control. _Because it looks like, to me, he still thinks you're too stupid to think with the proper head._

**Shut the fuck up** , Dark replies, but it doesn't have as much heat as he wants it to. He’s tired and angry and he can feel a headache beginning to form behind his eyes. **You're just jealous. You wish you had what we do. You wish whatever love you have for McLoughlin is as strong as what I have for Anti.**

_You're right_ , Fischbach says. _I am jealous. But I'm only jealous of Anti and his ability to get shit done and still ignore every ounce of bullshit you've ever put him through._

~~

He wakes to the feeling of Anti in his arms.

There's a moment of blissful peace in the stillness of the room, where he doesn't feel Fischbach waking up too, where he doesn't have to exert the energy to put up the mental block between them. It's a rare occasion that Dark feels at ease in this skin, and today seems to be that exception.

What's more bizarre is that Anti is here, solid and breathing and warm and all things that he should be. But that's not what baffles him. What feels strange is that Anti's present, that he's even still in bed, sleeping in such a way that allows Dark to believe maybe he's coming off his high horse and forgiving him a little bit. That he's almost comfortable with him again.

It's been about a week since the accident, when Dark had tried to sleep with the whore from the bar and Fischbach had taken his body back for a short period. It's been a week since Fischbach had been stuffed back down and it's been a week since Anti did everything he could to get him back.

They haven't talked about it. The one time Dark had tried to bring it up, Anti snuffed it out, dismissing him with a tired scowl and denying him an answer.

Dark had been so sure, so goddamn sure Anti loved him, but now he's unsure, and makes him uneasy, perhaps the only thing that’s ever given him cause for anxiousness.

Anti had been the one to bring him back, but Anti had also driven him away. It's conflicting in his mind, a nebulous disaster that causes tumultuous waves of emotion to bang against every bone in this host body--one he's kept under even tighter lock and key since the accident.

He hasn't kissed Anti at all in this week, because he's scared. Dark isn't scared of a lot of things, but he's scared of Anti--not because the other is imposing or ruthless or dangerous--though he's all of those things--but because he's toeing a thin line. There's a glass veil between them and Anti has the power to break it with a single tap, and he knows it. 

Dark won't admit to a lot of things--but he'd give anything to kiss him again, to take everything that Anti has and hold it within himself until he's filled to the brim. He'd break every neck, tear off every body part of every living and dead person in this godforsaken world if he would be promised that Anti would smile at him, even in exasperation.

He resists the urge to pull the other into his arms, further than he is already. Dark will take what he wants--he always gets what he wants--but Anti isn't something that's up for the taking. He's not able to be taken--he can only be given. Only earned. Any touching he’s tried has resulted in Anti very literally swatting at his hands, each movement punctuated with a warning glare, unlike his others. 

Dark will have to be patient before he's awarded such a privilege, the one that allows him to let Anti see how much he adores him. He once decided he was not a patient man, but he's going to have to be, if he desires to have Anti be more than a partner in crime.

He’s always intended to have Anti around for the long run, but his haunting words have echoed in his mind since he’d first said them; _Did you really think I'd love you after all of this?_

Whether or not Anti meant that, Dark hasn’t been able to discern. Truthfully, he’s been holding out on the hope that Anti will love him someday, and while his persistence in getting him back could be written off as Anti recognizing the necessity of his presence, he chooses to believe it’s because he’s falling in love with him. Just as he’s fallen in love with Anti. 

Though, Dark had once been told by Anti that he didn't know the meaning of the word "love."

Once he'd gotten over the bitterness of the initial accusation, Dark had actually thought about what humans raved about, that peculiar sensation that spurned attraction and adoration.

When he'd first blinked into existence that short time ago, conscious of Fischbach's every movement and desire and thought and feeling, he'd felt what Fischbach called love; love for that green-haired mystery that Anti wore the skin of. It had felt like trembling heartbeats and disjointed thoughts, tumultuous waves of anxiety and excitement, rolling in tandem with each other. Dark had been disgusted with it--it clouded judgment and made for sloppier decisions. But that was before he knew Anti existed.

Anti had come so unexpectedly--his consciousness cropping up in snippets; small, fleshy pieces of a heartbeat that made his own sing. Dark had known all the signs of someone in love--but he hadn't felt any of those things. All he'd felt was want and desire and to own something so disgustingly beautiful.

That, as Fischbach consistently reminded him, is lust.

But there's more to it than that.

When Anti's upset, Dark is physically in pain. Whenever Anti's in a tizzy over Dark's supposedly unsolicited touching, or stressing over getting their kills or any number of things, his immediate reaction is to get his hands on and destroy whatever's causing him discomfort. Sometimes Anti's own brain--and McLoughlin--are causing him trouble, and all Dark wants to do in those times is to take it all away, to restore Anti's lukewarm peace.

He likes it when Anti's happy--as happy as he can be. Some days, he's better than others--for instance, on days that Anti's "happy," he's a little more inviting; he tends to humor Dark's "affections" a little more, talks a little more openly and doesn't grumble or grouse when Dark steals a kiss from him or a drag from his cigarette.

It lets him feel at ease, when the tension in Anti's shoulders loosens from their tightly coiled position.

Dark thinks that Anti's wrong. Anti is his whole world, and he would gladly destroy the outside one if it meant giving Anti what he wanted. But he won't pretend he doesn't know what love is.

Love is whatever unearthly desire he has to bestow upon Anti everything he's ever desired in his existence. There's lust there, yes--he dreams of days where he'll have Anti beneath him, an unraveled mess and he craves to draw every scream from his throat until it's completely raw and there isn't anything on his lips but his name, over and over.

Anti is everything to him, and everything includes love, too.

When the other stirs, it takes all of his willpower not to pull him back, smooth his hands over him and lull him back to sleep. Anti is so pretty when he sleeps, as though it’s the only moment at which he finds peace. He wonders if this is what Anti will look like when he’s in a body of his own choosing. Calm, collected, and peaceful.

Dark’s curious about what made him stay this morning.

Anti blinks up at him, rubbing the sleep from his good eye as he sits up. He cranes his neck from side to side, and he hears a stiff pop, before the other lets out a low sigh. 

Without a word, he climbs out of bed, and shuffles towards the bathroom, where the door shuts, locks, and a few seconds later, the water begins to run.

Dark decides it’s time to go out for a bit. 

~~

Three dead people later--one man, two girls--Dark looks over the lowly convenience store. The shelves are lined with objects waiting to be taken, and though he’s not opposed to stealing what he deserves, he doesn’t feel like lugging anything useless back. 

Pulling out his phone, he leans onto the front counter, tapping away on the device.

_[Text from: Dark] Just took out the owner of a convenience store you need anything?_

He isn’t expecting a reply. If Anti refuses to answer him verbally, texting doesn’t seem plausible to happen, either. Dark pockets his phone and begins to scour the shelves, wondering what he should take home as a trophy to commemorate his kill. 

Dark’s in the middle of deciding if he wants to take any of the cheap beer home when his phone buzzes. He thinks the beer’s probably a bad idea because Fischbach is deathly allergic to it or some shit like that, but he’s heard stories of humans drowning whatever sorrows they have in it, and if that’s the case, he could really use a drink. 

After deciding that yes, he’s going to bring it home, he pulls out his phone, thinking it to be a notification of some kind that he hasn’t gotten around to turning off. It seems like for every time he shuts off one of Fischbach’s annoying notifications, two more will pop up the next day.

He’s surprised, however, when Anti’s name lights up.

_[Text from: Anti] Don’t text me_  
_[Text from: Anti] Also you better have cleaned up after yourself_

Dark sighs, but allows himself to feel a tiny bloom of hope, because Anti actually answered him, the first actual set of words that aren’t strictly business. Letting his eyes glaze over the glass behind the counter, he approaches it and slides the door back. 

Letting his fingers trail along the array of cartons, some wrapped in cellophane, some not, Dark plucks a few packages of cigarettes out and stuffs them in his pocket. 

~~

_Why do you keep trying?_

**Is this your annoying attempt at mocking me again?** Dark answers, because he’s got no one else to talk to these days, considering Anti won’t speak to him, and he’s not go interest in anyone else. He really doesn’t have an interest in Fischbach, either, but it’s hard to ignore someone that shares your consciousness, and putting up a mental block between them is just more energy he doesn’t feel like expending. **Get better. You’re boring me.**

_It’s a genuine question_ , Fischbach says, and though the heat is still there, he sounds tired, trying to maintain the guise of power. _Like, I don’t know about you, but it’s been a little while and he still doesn’t seem to be throwing you the slightest bone. I’m just wondering what indication you have that keeps you going._

**He called for me** , Dark tells him, and even the memory breathes a swell of hope into him. **He wanted me back. It’s a step in the right direction.**

_Consider this_ , Fischbach hums, and God, he’s annoying. _He still needs you for this shitty plan of yours. What if he was telling the truth that day? That you’re of no use to him after he’s got his own corpse to pilot? What indication do you have that he’ll stay around?_

**I’m tired of listening to you talk** , Dark says, and promptly fixes Fischbach with the equivalent of a mental gag, because really, all he’s good for is asking stupid questions that don’t deserve to be answered. 

~~

“Present,” Dark drawls, as he drops the cigarette boxes to Anti, who’s staring at the television with mute interest. It’s some obscure teen drama, but Anti seems enthralled with it, though he supposes that’s because anything is more interesting than him at the given time.

Not that he’s expecting him to, but Anti doesn’t say thank you, and he doesn’t even move to put the cigarettes in the drawer, as though touching them is a sign that Dark’s any bit forgiven. His silence is anything but blissful, and Dark decides it’s about time to crack open one of those beers. 

He’s halfway through one can with tension in the air so thick he could choke on it when he finally notices Anti leaning back against the headboard of the bed, twirling a hoodie string around his finger idly. It takes a couple of moments to process, but all at once he realizes that the hoodie is _his_. 

Upon this revelation, he drops the can. It spills all over the carpet, and he just stares.

Anti doesn’t even flinch. Licking his lips, Dark murmurs, “Baby?”

No answer. Without warning, a smile curls onto Dark’s lips, amused and a fraction victorious at the implication, because he already knows the answer to his question. “Is that my jacket?”

“Do you really have nothing better to do than stare at me?” is Anti’s reply, his gaze sliding to him for a brief moment, before he’s turning his attention back to the TV. “Or are you trying to drink yourself into a stupor?” 

“You’re prettier to look at than that garbage you’re watching,” Dark snips back in reply, but he doesn’t miss the way that Anti rolls his eyes. That in itself is a victory, because Anti’s paying attention. “You’re prettier than anything I’ve ever seen.”

He contemplates picking up the beer can from the floor, but he can’t put his mind to it. His gaze rests solely on Anti, and the way his jacket hangs on his smaller frame, bundling him in a sloppy package that suits him. The black is a stark contrast to his paler complexion, the red strings hanging from the hood weaved through his fingers as though he owns it. 

Anti doesn’t respond to the comment, which frustrates him, because he had thought he was getting somewhere. This is the first almost-conversation they’ve had and Dark’s craving a full one. 

When Dark shucks off his shoes and jeans, Anti gets out of bed before he ever gets into it. He sits at the kitchen table, pouring over his notes again, as though looking for an excuse to not be within a couple of feet from Dark. 

He’s drifting off when Anti grabs the keys from the counter, and the door shuts behind him. 

~~

Being out of contact with Anti for this long is driving him mad. 

The morning he’d stayed in bed had been a fluke. It hadn’t been a reoccurring thing, and it certainly hadn’t been an indication of forgiveness. Whatever respite Dark had thought he’d been receiving had been a beautiful dream--because he hasn’t been that close to Anti since. 

Dark _knows_ Anti’s upset, whether the other refuses to admit it or not. His transgressions had struck some deep chord within him, spoken to the part of him that’s Anti and the part of him that is purely mortal. He’s upset and Dark doesn’t know what to do with that.

Fischbach’s whisperings indicate that the word is _apologize_ , but Dark’s never apologized for anything in his entire existence. He’s never needed to. He thinks of the men and women he’s killed, how many lives he must have torn apart by causing their deaths, and it brings him joy. Almost nothing elates him further by knowing he’s done irreparable damage. 

Despite this, he can’t scrub away the image of Anti’s crazed look when he’d killed that hooker. He can’t erase the scathing gaze, the momentary flash of betrayal, the trembling hands and poison tongue. He’s never wanted to apologize for anything, but he’d give anything to burn those memories out of his mind. 

He wants Anti back. He misses him so fucking much, misses him more than when they weren’t together. At least when they were apart, Dark could dream of what it would be like to have him, but what he’s experiencing now is torment. Having him so close but so distant is an uncomfortable ache in his fragile, human chest. 

Dark wants Anti back so badly that he slits a guy’s throat to shut him up so he could rip out his spine and stabs a kid to death to get her ears. His own body is a bloody mess by the time he’s done, but the tremors in him cease for a short time. Perhaps putting Anti ahead of the game in terms of kills will satiate his anger. 

“I got your fifth and seventh chakras,” Dark murmurs into the phone, surprised that Anti even picked up. But Anti hadn’t even said hello, so he takes the liberty of speaking first. It’s Anti’s style to be _to the point_. “I’ll bring them back to you now. That should leave three for you, right?”

“Why are you calling me?” Anti’s voice crackles through the receiver, blank and unreadable. If anything, he sounds bored. 

“You told me not to text you,” Dark replies, examining the blood on the latex with a mild curiosity. “So I thought I’d call you instead.” 

“I’d rather you text me,” Anti says. “At least that way, I don’t have to listen to you.”

The line goes dead, but that’s the first normal thing Anti’s said to him in a long time. 

~~

A tentative air hangs between them when Dark returns that night, because Anti still isn’t saying shit to him but he’s not keeping his “across the room” distance from him, either.

This is the closest they’ve been when Anti is in clear conscience. He’s idly scrolling through his phone, his back leaning against the headboard with his legs stretched out when Dark arrives home, not bothering to say anything in acknowledgment, as per usual. Dark showers because even though Anti isn’t really talking to him, if he even thinks about getting into bed with blood on him, he’ll be mad even _longer_.

When he returns, Anti hasn’t moved from his position, but he’s still wearing Dark’s fucking hoodie and he looks so good in it, and not being able to touch him when he looks so pretty is annoying as all hell. It’s almost as annoying as Fischbach is.

Dark is tired from his long day of lackluster kills--not at all exciting when his mind is so focused on getting Anti to forgive him--and he heads towards the bed, waiting for the creak that indicates Anti’s dramatic yet dismissive exit. 

But his partner doesn’t move, simply continues to pay attention to his phone as though it holds every secret he’s ever searched for. 

Their shoulders brush, because Dark’s wondering why Anti hasn’t moved, and the contact is like a static shock. Anti’s free hand is lying carelessly in his lap, and Dark only has so much self control. Slowly, his fingers move and he places his own hand over his, soaking in the contact for as long as he’s able. 

For a second, the air thickens between them, a heavy curtain that suffocates them both. Dark can feel every bit of blood coursing through his mortal skin, waiting for Anti to yank away, or get up, or leave his presence entirely, but he shows no interest in doing any of those things.

Dark considers how far his luck will go. Kissing him would be a mistake--it’s not something he’s willing to try yet. He’s not stupid. Anti’s nowhere near forgiving him. No amount of organs will quicken that process. 

Scooting closer, Dark presses their shoulders together, and they’re now connected in two places, which is almost as much progress in one night as Dark’s made in all his time knowing him. 

It’s soothing, and the thirst that’s been plaguing him is quenched, for however brief that time may be. Dark soaks in the sound of Anti’s calm breathing, and somehow he hears too the wheels turning in his head, considering his next course of action, as he always is. He’s always planning his next move.

That’s why Dark doesn’t allow himself to be hopeful that Anti may have tilted the phone a fraction more, just so he could see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the music suggestions! Quin and I are always on the hunt for new music, and all of your songs are stellar. If you have any questions about this chapter, please ask and I'll do my best to clarify anything that's confusing!


	20. damned if i do ya, damned if i don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've fought it for a long time now, while drowning in a river of denial.  
> I washed up, fixed up, picked up all my broken things.  
> 'Cause you left me, police tape, chalk line,  
> tequila shots and the dark scene of the crime.  
> Suburban living with the feeling that I'm giving up everything for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this chapter feels like it's somewhat on time instead of horribly late, but then again, our schedule is wack and so are we.
> 
> I had to rewrite parts of this chapter more than once just to get the characterization right instead of posting something incredibly embarrassing and OOC. GG can testify to this, seeing as she was forced to read the first few drafts. What a saint.
> 
> Title and summary are from the All Time Low song of the same name.

_[Text from: Dark] baby, you’ve been gone for hours. I know you’ve been hunting down victims without me. just come back._

Anti scowls down at his phone. Dark’s red flannel is bunched around his neck and shoulders, too big and too hot, overbearing much like the man himself.

A fly lands next to his coffee mug and Anti swats at the tabletop, all late night frustration and nerves egged on by the buzzing of the diner sign in the window. His fingers come away filmy and he wipes them on his jeans, afraid to ask how many months of grease and human contact are coating the dull plastic.

_[Text from: Anti] why are you awake at 3 AM?_

He’s not feeling like humoring Dark any more than usual, and Anti doesn’t exactly enjoy setting himself adrift in a small town with the population of the average American high school, but anything is better than yet another cookie cutter hotel room.

There’s only two other customers in this place, and they’re a young couple. Boundless energy and rampant cynicism abound as they sip their coffee and wax poetic over runny eggs, only a soft hum between them even to Anti’s superior hearing.

_[Text from: Dark] probably not for the same reasons you are_

Anti doesn’t want to answer that, because it’s just Dark trying to force him to talk about his feelings, like Anti’s got anything to say out loud that isn’t already plastered across his face.

He’s here and away from Dark for two reasons: one, he isn’t talking about _shit_ and two, the waitress is just a little more pink cheeked and sweet faced than is necessarily healthy, and he still needs the heart of a human who can love unconditionally.

She’s topped off his coffee twice now and brought him a whole cup of sugar, plus a plate of French toast doused in syrup. Her nametag reads ‘Maggie’, her heart shaped face is framed by bouncing black curls, and she’d told him he reminded her of her husband to be.

Anti thinks her fiancé must be a fucking pig.

Still, she’s told him about her plans for the future: lots of puppies and babies and white picket fences, soccer teams and lemonade and a whole heaping load of bullshit. It’s so sappy sweet and too picture perfect to be real, and yet here she is: the walking, talking personification of false American idealism.

It’s too good an opportunity to pass up, and Anti’s going to sit here as long as her shift drags on.

_[Text from: Dark] I’m missing out on all the fun, aren’t i? I bet you’re bathing in blood rn_

Anti rolls his eyes and spears a crust from the thick-cut toast, tapping out a reply.

_[Text from: Anti] is there a single hour of the clock that you aren’t fucking disgusting_

Maggie is hunched over the order window to the kitchen, smiling at the chef with more sunshine than anyone should be able to imitate once it’s gotten dark out. It’s quarter after three and her shift ends at four, so Anti’s stuck sitting here with only his phone and his toast for company for at least another half hour.

He knows he’ll have to go back to the hotel once Maggie’s dead, because the safest place for him to be after spilling blood is out of the public eye and back underneath Dark’s ever scrutinizing ones.

It’s been tense between them in the past week or so. Dark’s awkward and persistent, but not in the same way he’d been before the incident. He brings Anti gifts and food like he’s trying to atone for something, but his demands for attention are more subtle than Anti remembers them being when they’d first met.

He’ll sidle up to Anti and put his hands on him without a second thought, but they don’t grab or push or pull him into furniture or walls. All they do is rest and touch and stroke, and it’s strange. Every time Dark had ever lain hands on him, there’d been an erratic edge to his motions, an ulterior motive Anti could smell ten miles away.

Now there’s none of that, and it’s fucking with his head.

Dark isn’t safe, it’s a fact of life. It’s Anti’s bible, his scripture, the gospel truth he recites by heart every single day before he gets up.

Ever since he’d brought Dark back, Anti feels like he’s beginning to doubt his own religion.

He hates to be near Dark—with his oppressive hands and his constant yammering—but he hates it more whenever Dark’s not around. The silence is too loud and the spaces are too big. Anti feels like he’s missing an arm and a leg and half his personality, and wearing Dark’s clothes is a poor substitute.

It started as an accident, borrowing Dark’s shirts when he wasn’t around and sleeping in them. He’d put on the wrong black shirt and quickly realized it wasn’t his, and then he’d never taken it back off.

His head tells him Dark isn’t safe, but his clothes are a balm to Anti’s nerves.

_[Text from: Dark] it’s the loneliness. It does things to my head_

His phone’s buzzing snaps him back to reality and he shakes images of Dark’s smug, smiling face from his mind, his whisper-soft mouth telling Anti how pretty he is when he wears Dark’s things.

_[Text from: Anti] you say that like I have any idea what you’re talking about_

Dark’s reply is immediate. He must be clinging to his phone like a limpet.

_[Text from: Dark] I know you aren’t wearing my shirt outside just because you think it looks good, anti_

Anti’s no idiot; he can read between the lines.

_I know you’re still lying to yourself about not loving me._

“God, just shut the fuck up,” he murmurs aloud, not enough for anyone to hear, but enough so that he knows he probably looks crazy.

Dark is an insidious piece of shit, and Anti hates him both for being an asshole and because whatever he’s doing is fucking working.

He doesn’t want to dignify that text with a response, but Dark will blow his phone up until he gets bored of Anti’s one sided answers and having his phone explode at the moment is not in his best interest.

_[Text from: Anti] I’ll be back by 5, if it matters_

It’s clipped and final, but Anti knows the value of throwing Dark a bone. He sits back in the booth and glances out the window at the black sky, lit by streetlamps and dotted with flies.

He’d kill for a bed right now, but duty calls and cabin fever is a bitch. He hopes Maggie dies quick and clean and her heart comes free with no effort on his part. Dark’s flannel is a lead weight on his shoulders, urging him back to familiar ground and even more familiar hands. Anti wishes he was strong enough to resist.

_[Text from: Dark] I’d wear your shirts all the time too if I could fit them_

-.-

The drive home is quiet.

Anti isn’t used to quiet, and the radio is no substitute for Dark in the passenger seat, so he leaves it off. All the roads he takes are back roads and he thinks that if he were to stop the car and step outside, the countryside would be soundless also.

They’ve been hunting for much longer than he’d anticipated at this point, dragging out the days and the kills until they’re stretched thin and feeling the fatigue in their bones.

He’d expected things to be different by now—Anti had assumed he’d already be stronger, better, faster. He’d hoped to be rid of Dark and all his shortcomings, living out his own life somewhere anyone or anything interested in leeching off of him could meet the business end of a knife and let him on his way.

Instead, he’s driving back to his hotel in a human’s body, a human’s car, and a human’s clothing he’d stolen from the very demon he’s been trying to get away from since the beginning.

_‘You’re not very good at seeing things through are you?’_

McLoughlin again. He’s been radio silent since the Incident, and Anti had been pretty damn sure he wasn’t going to hear from him again anytime soon.

 **‘I thought you weren’t speaking to me after what happened with Mark?’** Anti’s curious about how well his human self holds grudges—or potentially doesn’t, in this case.

 _‘So you’re calling him Mark now?’_ McLoughlin’s tone is unreadable. _‘A little on the casual side, don’t you think?’_

**‘Don’t get used to it, okay? It’s easier not to have to think in last names all the time, and your friend left a pretty lasting impression.’**

McLoughlin might be mentally rolling his eyes. _‘I’m sure he’d appreciate that. Too bad I’ll never get to tell him, right?’_

Right.

McLoughlin is suspicious with a capital ‘S’, but whatever he’s playing at, Anti can’t crack.

 **‘What exactly do you think are the chances of you and Mark conveniently breaking out at the exact same time and lasting long enough to have a tearful reunion?’** Anti’s trying to fill the silence more than anything, but there’s nothing he hates more than a human’s baseless hope.

_‘Well, if it were up to you or Dark, I’d say absolutely zero.’_

Anti snorts wryly. **‘I guess it’s a good thing it is up to us then.’** He’s at least ten minutes out from the hotel still, but Dark hasn’t blown up his phone again and Maggie’s heart is safely packed away in the cooler in the trunk.

Tonight, at least, has been a success.

 _‘So what are you gonna do once you sacrifice your severed body parts to the gods and vaporize me completely?’_ McLoughlin sounds genuinely curious, but Anti’s more than certain he’s needling him for something.

 **‘What’s that supposed to mean?’** The ritual requires a number of prominent organs and a whole heaping spoonful of dark magic with which to form a newer, better body. It has nothing to do with fake gods or anything more than centuries old witchcraft, but McLoughlin doesn’t need to know that.

The eye rolling is back, this time with a vengeance. _‘I mean, what are you gonna do with yourself once you’re all hulked out and you’ve left Dark behind?’_

Anti doesn’t answer for a moment, sacrificing his brief reprieve from silence for the sake of his dignity.

 **‘Did you have _your_ entire life planned out before I came along?’** he concedes finally. **‘Why do you expect me to have a fucking map of my future ready to present for your approval?’**

_‘I didn’t until you started snarking at me, and now I’m under the impression that your plans may have changed somewhere along the way.’_

Maybe he shouldn’t have allowed this conversation to take off.

 **‘Why do you care what I do with myself?’** he asks. **‘You’re not going to be around and no one else is going to care what I get up to.’**

 _‘Dark will care.’_ It’s less of a declaration and more of an echo of Anti’s own thoughts from earlier. _‘Do you really think you’ll ever be able to get rid of him? Really? Dark?’_

Anti doesn’t like to think of the fate of the world once Dark’s at full capacity and set loose upon humanity without Anti to curb his…issues. It’s far from likely that he’ll ever be able to escape Dark’s influence, and even less likely that Dark will even let him try.

McLoughlin shares his silence for a moment, the two of them listening to the whir of the air conditioning together.

_‘Are you even still planning on abandoning him once this is all over?’_

Anti taps his fingers on the steering wheel and presses down harder on the gas. It’s nearing 5 AM and Dark is probably still up and waiting, eyes glued to the clock on his phone. He needs to get back.

 **‘Like you said,’** he murmurs, the tires eating up the miles between him and his destination. **‘I’ve never been very good about seeing things through.’**

-.-

When he gets back, Dark’s nowhere to be found, and Anti’s surprised by the leap of confusion in his chest.

He resists the urge to call out, because he’s got an image to maintain and his mouth still gets sour looking at Dark and remembering how easily he’d gone back on his words and on Anti.

He tosses his keys aside and shimmies out of his jeans, and it might be nearly daybreak but he’s going to sleep for a long goddamn time. Dark can join if he wants, but Anti isn’t planning on being conscious for it.

The bathroom door creaks open and Dark leans out, hair falling into his eyes and expression cloudy.

“Goddamn, I thought you were never coming back.” He looks like he’s been fighting off sleep and just the sight of him makes Anti’s eyelids droop. His chest feels warm.

“I’m going to bed,” he answers shortly, and crawls into the tangle of sheets still wearing Dark’s flannel and his own boxers. No sense in wasting a perfectly comfortable shirt. “If you’re going out don’t do something that’s going to piss me off.”

Dark frowns at him from where he’s moved to stand near the foot of the bed.

“Everything I do pisses you off.” He sighs heavily and his arms slacken by his sides, tan and muscled. “Pretty sure that’s not a request I can fulfill.”

He eyes Anti on the bed and tilts his head.

“You’re still wearing my clothes.” His voice is soft, softer than ninety nine percent of the things Dark’s ever said to Anti’s face. “Does wearing them make you feel better?”

Anti doesn’t want to answer, but then again, he doesn’t know how much longer he can continue ignoring Dark before it becomes more exhausting than satisfying.

“What part of ‘I’m going to bed’ was confusing to you?” He wishes his telepathic powers had the ability to turn all the lights off with only a thought, but that’s a skill for another day, another body.

Dark makes a low noise.

“I’m going to bed too,” he claims, and Anti can hear him traipsing across the room, flipping switches and knocking his knees against furniture. “I’ve been waiting up for you all night long.”

Anti hums. “Sounds like a waste of your time.”

The pillow is soft and it smells like Dark. Anti buries himself deeper in the covers and doesn’t think about how fucking atrocious his sleep deprived brain is being at the moment.

“You’re never a waste of my time,” Dark says sharply, and then everything’s encased in grey shadows, black pixilated spots dancing before his eyes.

Anti decides he’ll save his words for the morning, when he has an excuse to move away from Dark’s tentative, reaching arms and there’s no danger of him wanting to give in.

-.-

“I’m going out to get my sixth chakra,” Dark announces sometime halfway through breakfast and Anti’s strawberry cheesecake yogurt, a day and a half later.

“Uh-huh.” He had no idea they made dessert flavored breakfast yogurts—it’s the little things in life that Anti’s come to appreciate. “Have fun.”

Dark doesn’t move from his chair, like that’s not the reaction he was hoping for (though it was probably the one he was expecting).

“I have to steal a teenager’s eyes,” he continues conversationally, as if Anti’s interested in the details of some kid’s life more than he is his own breakfast.

“That’s great.” Maybe he should make some coffee to go along with this. He’s still feeling a little twitchy and Dark had forgotten to turn on the coffeemaker this morning. “Bye.”

Dark taps his fingers against the wood of the table and eyes the way Anti’s eating, but he still doesn’t leave. It’s fucking nerve-racking as all hell.

Anti pauses mid-spoon lick. “You wanna maybe let me eat my yogurt in peace? Thanks?”

There’s a beat, and Dark’s sitting up straighter, arms crossed over his chest tighter than the t-shirt he’s wearing.

“I need your help,” he says, brief and awkward. He’s shifting in his seat and Anti just stares, setting his spoon and yogurt down carefully. “You’re the one who’s good at stealing the eyes—I’m afraid I might crush them if I try.”

Anti has to resist the grin trying to creep its way past the corners of his mouth.

“What, can’t control your clumsy fucking paws? I’m after putting up with this shit for weeks and you’re just now figuring it out—control’s never been your strong suit has it?” It’s petty, yeah, but Anti can afford to be petty. Hell, he deserves to be petty, if anything.

Dark squirms again and his jaw tightens. “Come on, Anti. _Fuck_ , if I don’t get this kill right it’s gonna take me even longer to find another victim and we’ll be that much further away from our goal. I know you don’t ever wanna talk to me again but can we at least pretend we’re civil enough to work together? Are you gonna make me beg?”

Anti can’t stop himself.

“Depends,” he replies, crossing his legs and raising one eyebrow. “Would you do it?”

Dark stares down at the faded wood and he’s so pretty, but so defeated. For once, Anti feels like he’s the one pulling the strings again, and he’s more than fucking ready to see Dark dance.

“You’re a goddamn sadist.” Dark regards him with unfiltered disgust, the most honest he’s been since he first left Anti a voicemail all that time ago. “You know I don’t do groveling, but I’m kind of at the end of my rope here, Anti.”

Anti’s mouth thins rapidly.

“Welcome to my world,” he interjects. “It sucks a whole lotta dick when you’re trying to get stuff done and you have to rely on someone who just wants to fuck around.”

Dark’s face colors and his shoulders stiffen. “I didn’t know I was signing up for an eight AM life lesson this morning, thanks mom.”

“Fuck off.” Anti doesn’t really care if he sounds like he’s delivering a lecture. Dark only responds to violence with more violence, so talking to him like he’s a five year old is apparently the only remaining option Anti has. “You know what I mean. You’re full of shit Dark—you can’t expect me not to give you your fair share now and then.”

Dark snorts and he’s disgruntled, but his mouth twists into something a little dangerously fond.

“All you ever do is give me shit.” It’s not angry, and to his surprise, Anti wasn’t afraid it would be. Dark’s more docile than usual this morning: all soft, big hands and feathery hair wisping over his forehead. “Don’t pretend you’re only doing it to be petty.”

“Well, I must not be doing it well enough.” This is the most they’ve spoken to each other in person since the night Dark came back. It’s easier than it should be to fall back into their routine. “I was planning on making your life a lot fucking harder.”

“You succeeded.” Dark reaches for his arm. “You’ve made me want to rip every single strand of my hair out in the past week and a half. Mission accomplished. Please just come with me.”

Anti lets him touch, but he refuses to touch back. It— _he_ —is not going to be that easy.

“Once you make this kill we’ll be even,” he muses, watching Dark trace the thin skin over his knuckles with a finger. It tickles. “I’ve only got two victims left to cross off the list, and if by tonight you’re caught up, we need to start thinking about what’s gonna happen during the ritual.”

Dark looks up at him, eyebrows furrowed, but he doesn’t stop his lazy stroking.

“I thought we’d been over that already?” He rests his chin on the side of his elbow and he’s so harmless looking like this—sitting quiet and confused under Anti’s gaze. “We need two people and a mirror. One of us stands on one end of the mirror and the other lights the organs on fire. We say the magic, hope for the best, and boom.”

It’s not that simple and they both know it. Before, Anti might have ignored Dark’s carelessness, but his conversation with McLoughlin a few days ago is still bouncing around in his head.

“Yeah, but which one of us is gonna go first? We’re going to have to take turns, as much as it pains me to say.”

The ritual requires two people: one to wait on one side of the mirror, and one to actually perform the spell. The caster is required to burn each organ in the instructed order, following the numeration of the chakras, and recite a lengthy incantation. Once the lighting is finished, the codes they’d cracked had claimed that the person on the other side of the mirror would be allowed to pass through the glass and out of their old body, into a newer one created by the spell.

Since there are two of them, the ritual has to be performed twice, and they’ve never discussed who was going to go first.

It might not be a problem if they didn’t have to rely on each other to be successful, or if Anti trusted Dark more than he does at this particular moment. One of them will get to step into their new body before the other even gets a chance to begin, and Anti isn’t exactly planning on giving Dark the honor of going first, even if he’s alluding to fair play.

Dark’s fingers stop abruptly on his skin, and then he laces their fingers together, head lifting from the tabletop.

“I wouldn’t abandon you if I went first.” He’s wide eyed and dedicated, and none of the honesty from before has drained from his face. “This was your idea Anti—what have I got to lose by running out on you at the last minute? Haven’t I—?”

He stops, and Anti hears the unspoken words like they’re beats on a drum.

_‘Haven’t I proven myself to you already?’_

Dark purses his lips, seeming to rethink his claims. It’s too early for this and he looks distant, as if trying to decide whether or not bringing this up now is worth it.

Anti isn’t spearheading this emotional discussion because he’d rather not be having it at all, so he keeps quiet.

“What do you want to do then, since I apparently still don’t have your trust?” It’s the least confrontational Dark’s ever been about something this delicate. He’s normally a bull in a china shop, gleefully decimating everything in sight with a maniacal flourish.

Anti grants his yogurt one last woeful glance. He feels like one half of an awkwardly married couple trying to salvage their relationship, except the twist is he wasn’t even aware he was married or that he cared.

“Can we not turn this into some weepy soap opera-esque scene where we talk about how I still don’t trust you because you’re a wild card and you don’t trust me because you think I hate you?”

Anti’s original goal was to kill a few people and get a whole lot stronger as a result, not permanently attach himself to a character who’s about as stable as a three legged table.

“If you’re trying to be roundabout with this it’s not working.” Dark gives him an incredibly unimpressed look. “Can you blame me for thinking you’d leave me behind if you went first?”

Anti rubs his forehead with his free hand. Dark’s still got an iron grip on his other one, and the awkward married couple vibes are only growing stronger with every passive aggressive statement.

“Are you trying to get me to apologize for hurting your feelings last week?” Anti knows he has a loose tongue when he gets pissed. He’d had every intention of fucking off and leaving Dark behind the first chance he got, back when their relationship had been entirely based upon phone calls and research.

There’s a shrug. “I don’t really care about any of that.” Dark says, and keeps his eyes trained on their hands, resolutely avoiding Anti’s face. “I just want to know if you meant what you said when you told me you never planned on keeping me around.”

Anti shifts his hand in Dark’s grip and considers. McLoughlin’s words to him are still there, etched across his brain like graffiti he can’t scrub away.

_‘You’re not very good at seeing things through are you?’_

He doesn’t know what it is Dark really feels for him, if it’s anything like human emotion or if it’ll even last once they switch bodies, but it’s something to think about. Dark’s always only been useful to him to a fault, but past that Anti never saw any reason to extend their partnership.

The idea of leaving Dark to suffer alone in a human shaped cage, or even on his own in a better, stronger body doesn’t hold the appeal it once did. He doesn’t feel the relief he used to just a short time ago when he’d thought of being alone, and he’s smart enough to know that leaving Dark would only mean giving him a reason to chase Anti down.

The sick truth is that Anti could never beat Dark in a fight, only escape his grasp, and it’s only by Dark’s affections for him that Anti’s been lucky enough to get this far. He’s always firmly maintained that he’s never owed anyone anything, and Dark least of all, but Anti’s accomplished more with his help than he ever could have alone.

Gratitude is a strange emotion, one he’s only felt in twisted, self-righteous helpings, but right now the sentiment is crystal clear in his mind. He’d rather Dark be firmly on his side than trailing him from city to city, hunting him either out of desperation or revenge.

For all his shortcomings, Dark has seen him through this far; fights and lies and scares and all.

It’s something to think about.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” Anti doesn’t really feel like apologizing out loud. He doesn’t feel he should have to. “You were being an asshole, I was pretty mad, I told you how I felt. Do you think I’m gonna take that back?”

Dark shakes his head slowly. “You wouldn’t be you if you made it easy on me, would you?”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

It’s so weird to see Dark actually trying to take stock of his mistakes, like he’s got any capability of admitting responsibility for them. Anti isn’t expecting him to own up to anything concrete, but it’s always nice to see Dark flounder a bit.

“You’ve got my balls in a fucking vice,” he complains, and Anti coughs up a sarcastic laugh.

“Funny that.” His voice hardens just enough to dry the air between them. “I wasn’t aware you even had any, seeing as how you’ve had such a hard time actually admitting you fucked up at all.”

Dark’s hand squeezes his so tightly Anti’s legitimately concerned his fingers are going to snap in half, but the cards are on the table and he can’t take them back.

He’s never seen someone so terrible look so desperate to convince someone. Dark is truly awful, but he’s invested a terrifying amount of his trust in Anti, and idly, he wonders the lengths Dark would go to wring forgiveness out of him.

 “I told you…” Dark stops and hesitates as though he’s struggling to find the right words. “I told you that girl didn’t mean anything right? I was bored and you weren’t there and I thought I could have some fun…”

He stops again and if this were a cartoon, Anti thinks there would be beads of sweat rolling down his skin. It’s almost comical how uncomfortable Dark is while trying to unofficially apologize in the shittiest way possible.

“What I mean is that if you want to go first with the ritual when the time comes, you can.”

Dark meets his eyes hopefully, and it’s fucking pathetic how pained he looks trying to be halfway decent for once. Anti really shouldn’t take pity on him.

“I still kinda want to punch you in the face,” he says, and it’s not actually a lie. “That sucked an insane amount of ass.”

Dark grins sharply, like a spark from a faulty bulb.

“Yeah, but I meant it.” He blinks up at Anti innocently. “You believe me, right?”

Anti eyes him, wary. Dark looks as sincere as he’s ever been, and he’s been pouty enough since their fight to give his claims some semblance of weight, but Anti’s no stranger to Dark’s penchant for ulterior motives.

“If it’ll make you quit following me around and whining like a pussy, then whatever.” That’s the best attempt at verbal forgiveness he can manage. He’s no better at accepting apologies than Dark is at giving them, and he knows Dark’s never going to leave him alone anyways, no matter what.

Dark brightens, straightening in his chair like Anti’s just offered to hug it out.

“You won’t ignore me anymore then?” he murmurs, bringing Anti’s hand up to his lips. He kisses the skin and Anti scowls, yanking his hand away like Dark’s a particularly mangy dog. “Case closed, you still love me?”

“This conversation is over,” Anti tells him plainly, standing up and putting a safe distance in between them. “We’re never gonna do that again, right?”

Dark makes a rude noise. “What? Talk about our feelings?”

Anti sneers and gravitates towards the coffeemaker like it’s magnetic. It’s easier to do than acknowledge what just happened between them—making coffee is something he can do without thinking.

“I’ll come with you as long as you promise never to bring this up between us again.” He roots through Dark’s bag for the stash of good coffee they’d bought a couple weeks ago on a whim to avoid having to drink the cheap, bitter hotel crap. “And keep it in your fucking pants, please.”

“Uh-huh.” Dark’s back to his usual smarmy self. Anti can hear it even if he’s pointedly not looking. “You don’t care if I whip it out in here though, yeah?”

Anti rolls his eyes. “I will come over there,” he says sternly, turning to point an accusing finger in Dark’s direction, “and I will _not_ bring you any coffee.”

“I’m terrified.” Dark crosses his arms behind his head and gives Anti a long, slow once over. “Are you actually gonna wear that when we go out?”

Anti’s comfortably swamped in Dark’s purple t-shirt and a pair of black boxer-briefs. He’d stolen the shirt after Dark wore it a couple days ago, just because everything is softer once Dark’s squeezed himself into it. He’s loathe to change into something more presentable, but pants probably aren’t optional for wherever they’re going.

“You’d love that wouldn’t you?” he mocks, pressing the start button on the coffee machine.

“I’d love it even more if you’d dress like that every time we stayed in.”

Anti hesitates before turning around, leaning up against the counter and locking eyes with Dark.

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘undress’, _a mhuirnín._ ” His voice is quiet, deliberate. “Didn’t think I’d have to teach you that.”

Dark’s gaze on him burns slowly into a smolder, and Anti feels it like hands on his skin. There are goosebumps prickling beneath the purple fabric on his shoulders, and he may as well be naked for how intently Dark is staring.

“You don’t have to teach me anything.”

Anti swallows, visible enough that Dark can see it without a doubt, and for a second he considers convincing Dark to stay in this morning instead of going out. He has every confidence that it won’t cost him any effort at all.

“I think we should go.” He diverts the topic with a rattle in his voice, but he knows there’s no fooling Dark. “If we wait much longer we’ll never get out of here.”

“I’d be okay with that,” Dark says, without a note of dishonesty in his voice. Looking at him is like staring directly into a pair of headlights, bearing down on Anti inevitably as he’s rooted in place. He can’t feel his fingers.

“Save it for later,” he replies, tongue sticking to the bottom of his mouth.

Later feels like an eternity to wait.

-.-

Jack doesn’t normally allow himself to watch what Anti and Dark get up to.

The whitewashed walls of his inner head are mind-numbing to the point of insanity, but most of the time they’re a hundred times better than watching his own hands spill blood or feeling Anti attach himself to Dark via their lips.

Today, things are different for Jack.

Anti and Dark are getting closer to their goal, galloping towards the final stretch and talking about buckling down on their kills like they’re out trying to make the most of deer season instead of stockpiling human bodies.

Jack can do nothing for the people that fall to their whims, burning and breaking and bleeding out beneath his hands and Dark’s. He’s as helpless as if he were a million miles away, watching through a TV screen in abject horror and numb fascination.

He’s only watched Anti kill once—that girl, that prostitute that he’d ripped open in a fit of white-hot jealousy and rage—and once was more than enough to feed a lifetime of nightmares.

He watches Dark through Anti’s eyes, piling into Mark’s car and driving off to the local skate park where their newest victim apparently spends his time. Dark is riding a high of some sort, coasting by on the elation of earning Anti’s forgiveness, and he’s bright eyed and animated with the morning sun on his face.

He looks like Mark when he’s happy and laughing, grinning at Jack through a pixilated screen and the static fuzz of a skype connection. Were it not for the red flash of his eyes and the sharp set of his teeth, he could be Mark, without a doubt.

Anti’s playing at hesitant to return Dark’s advances as they track down the kid and his friends, nudging Dark to the side and scowling at him so hard Jack’s afraid his mouth will get stuck that way.

Dark pays him no mind, brushing up against him and tugging at Anti’s belt loop until they’re pressed hip to hip, walking in perfect sync. It’s adorable, it’s sickly, it’s everything he and Mark should have had first, but didn’t.

Jack wanted to break his hands in on Mark’s skin, wanted to be the first to feel what it was like to tease him and know that Mark would do more than just blush and duck away. He wanted to curl up next to Mark and fall asleep with their clothes all rumpled and the heat on high, and wake him up by shouting something obscene as close to his ear as possible.

Instead, Dark and Anti get to do everything Jack had planned on, and at first, Anti hadn’t even _cared_.

Jack doesn’t shut himself away when Dark grabs the kid by the neck and hauls him towards the back fence, away from prying eyes and the street view. He keeps his eyes open as Anti talks out loud, playing his role, working his magic, responding to Dark’s every taunt like he’s reading from a script.

The kid is barely eighteen, blonde and lanky and wide eyed in the face of danger. His eyes are big and green and they bleed like faucets under Anti’s persuasion, loosening around the edges and sliding free into Anti’s outstretched palm like fat red drops from his skull.

It’s awful.

Jack doesn’t look away.

If he looks away, then he’ll forget the things Anti made him do, the horrors he made him watch and feel and dream while he was asleep.

He needs to remember.

Jack forces himself to take it all in: the murder, the laughter, the way Dark lights the kid’s body on fire like it’s a victory pyre and he’s taking home the trophy. He’s far too satisfied with himself for making Anti smile, while Anti breathes content and buzzed, high on the fresh kill and Dark’s hands on his waist.

Jack wants them both to bleed.

Dark sets Anti on the trunk of the car and kisses him like it’s a celebration, hands tangled in hair and knees pressed to hipbones like opposite poles attracting one another, two magnets snapping together.

Sensation comes flooding towards Jack in a tidal wave of warmth and static electricity as Anti opens up the channels between them and invites Jack back into his conscious mind. He can feel everything—Dark’s hands on his skin, between his legs, beneath his shirt—Mark’s shirt, the one he used to wear whenever he’d show off his muscles and Jack would laugh at him.

Anti’s kissing Dark with more enthusiasm than before, the buzzing of arousal and the high on bloodlust enveloping him and Jack so fully that they feel the same things all at once. He’s not holding back anymore, touching Dark like he’s been starving himself and never told anyone, not a soul, how hungry he was.

Jack’s known for awhile how Anti’s been bursting at the seams, struggling to compact himself into tiny boxes labeled with unamused glares and sarcastic retorts, carefully packing himself away so that he’s impenetrable to anyone or anything.

Dark kisses up his neck and Anti’s fingernails dig into his shoulders, the shudder that overtakes him stalling out his thoughts as effectively as it does Jack’s. He has no idea why Anti’s letting him feel _this_ , of all things, similar to how he’d let Jack experience those few short moments with Mark just last week.

He can’t tell if it’s Anti’s twisted attempt at kindness, a last ditch effort to make Jack’s last days or weeks on earth something more than numb isolation and bitter regret or if it’s the exact opposite. Maybe it’s his victory cheer, a slap in the face with a trophy that reads ‘ _We win. We got here first._ ’

Jack, with a quivering spine and hands that bury themselves in Dark’s hair against his will, decides that either way, he does not care.

Anti can have his fun, his love, his victory for now, but none of them will last longer than Jack can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed and we're getting closer to the climax of this fic, so a few more chapters and shit is about to go down. Maybe. Probably. <3333


	21. no one 'round here's good at keeping their eyes closed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No-one round here's good at keeping their eyes closed,  
> The sun's starting to light up when we're walking home,  
> Tired little laughs, gold-lie promises: we'll always win at this,  
> I don't ever think about death,  
> It's alright if you do, it's fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to anyone who thought dark was just a lovesick puppy
> 
> newsflash: he's not
> 
> Title and chapter summary from "Glory and Gore" by Lorde.

“Alright,” Anti says with such finality that Dark is inclined to listen, just this once. “I'm done. Let go, I'm going to sleep.”

In one of his most ungraceful acts, Dark physically pouts. He likes the feel of Anti in his lap way too much; his arms around his fragile waist, and the satisfaction of knowing that he could break him in half at any given moment. Not that he ever would, but he's really, really unwilling to let him go.

He's unwilling to let him go every night, as though Anti forgiving him is all a pleasant dream that he'll wake up from. 

“You can't be that tired,” Dark complains, tugging on Anti's shirt. “Baby, we just got back.”

“You still need your heart chakra,” Anti says, pushing against him, attempting to remove himself from Dark's arms, perhaps his presence entirely. “Figure it out. I'm going to bed.”

He wraps his arms around him tighter, ignoring the way Anti glares. “I've already figured it out. She's all written out and detailed in that pretty little book of yours. She's the perfect candidate for a heart chakra. Full of compassion and kindness and all that gross shit. I've got this under control, Anti.”

“That doesn't change the fact that I'm tired,” Anti replies coolly. “And I want to sleep. Remove your arms before I decide to remove them for you.”

Dark whines, but does as Anti asks, because even with forgiveness, he doesn't want to push him too far. Anti peels himself off of his lap, letting out a low sigh, as though happy to be breathing his own air again. He walks around to his side of the bed, lifting up the sheets before settling into them.

“You still look sexy like that,” Dark comments, brushing his fingers along Anti's shoulder. “In my shirts, I mean. Looks really pretty with your hair.”

Anti doesn't bother answering, and though Dark knows he isn't asleep that quickly, he lets him have his moment of peace. He slides down underneath the sheets next to him, pulling him against him, and is satisfied in the fact that Anti doesn't huff at the contact. 

This has become the norm for them, and it's comfortable. It's much better than their norm a couple of days ago, when Anti wouldn't even so much as be in the same room as him, would flinch away from all his touches as though he were burned. This Anti is more agreeable, more accommodating and Dark wants to love every inch of him. 

Sometimes it unsettles him, thinking how close they are to their goal. In an act of trust he didn't know he had within himself, he had agreed to letting Anti go through with his end of the ritual first. It's strange how much trust he's putting into him, given that Anti hasn't exactly proven to be trustworthy.

It's not like Dark has much of a choice, anyhow. He's come to learn that what Anti says and what Anti means are two totally different things. 

~~

“You’re less chipper than usual,” Anti says from his place in the passenger seat. He’s staring out the window as he talks, but Dark knows he’s paying attention to every movement he makes. He’s always like that. “What, killing isn’t fun anymore?”

“The exact opposite,” Dark puts on his best sing-song voice, just for him. “It’s even more fun. I’m just holding in all the energy until I can actually get my hands on her.”

He thinks of the target in particular. Theresa Hale, some teenager who’s the model picture for his heart chakra. She’s small and dainty, does copious amounts of charity and volunteer work, and has a reputation for being the perfect child around town. Dark wonders if the sweetness will wear off after a few organs are ripped out of her. 

“Listen to you, all eager to destroy everything you come across,” Anti says casually, but it’s not his usual sour demeanor. It’s not quite welcoming, either, but it’s not an outward insult.

Dark considers this progress.

“I don’t seek to destroy you,” he hums, and diverts his gaze from the road to flicker at him, briefly.

Anti has the decency to snicker at that. 

“So you say,” he sighs. “Maybe one day you’ll act like it.”

Dark smiles. They’ve got another twenty minutes to go, now, with no one’s company but each other’s. It’s a blessing, really. He could get used to this lighter air between them. 

_It’s like you forget I’m actually a person, and you’re not._

**I don’t count you as a person** , Dark replies, just because he’s in a good mood, and it always lifts his spirits to demoralize Fischbach a little bit. **You won’t be for much longer.**

_You really think your little voodoo ritual shit is going to work?_ Fischbach snips. _You found it in the coding of some cheap video game. Like there’s any truth to that._

**It’s black magic** , Dark attempts to convince him, even though he’s got no reason to. **Do you really think it’d be easy to find?**

_I was thinking more like old dusty books and forgotten cave paintings_ , is Fischbach’s answer. _Not video game files that anyone can access._

**It’s what caused the split in consciousness, isn’t it?** Dark counters. **Have you forgotten we’re the same person?**

_That’s where I’m also having an issue_ , Fischbach does the mental equivalent of a sneer. _You’re not anything like me. You’re not me, no matter how much you say you are. You’re something awful that took advantage of my paranoia._

Dark actually rolls his eyes. Anti doesn’t seem to notice. **Who do you think caused that paranoia? Who do you think planted all the voices, wormed its way into your subconscious and caused you to bend and break?**

_You’re not me. I don’t care what you say. You’re not me, I’m not you. You’re just an awful, obsessed, disgusting thing that only cares about himself and satisfying whatever disgusting desires he has. You’re a monster._

He laughs, because sometimes, when he’s not being a little bitch, Fischbach is cute in a really pathetic way.

**Now who does that sound like?** Dark asks, and Fischbach’s silence is his answer. 

~~

They park down the street, cutting the headlights a few moments before they come to a stop.

“Her parents are away on business,” Dark says, filling Anti in on the details like he hasn’t read the book with her information in it. “They will be for the remainder of this week. Like I said, she’s well-known in the community, and people are likely to check up on her in her parents’ absence.”

“Which means we’ll have to do this quick,” Anti finishes. 

“You’re so smart, baby,” Dark grins at him. “As much as I’d love to break each individual finger on her pretty little hands, I don’t think I’ll have time for that. Go in, rip her heart out, and snap her neck before she can ever scream for help.”

“Cutting her tongue out would also silence her,” Anti points out.

It’s snide comments such as those that remind Dark that Anti’s just as bad as he is. He may despise getting his hands dirty and he may find anything that isn’t his goal uninteresting, but his entire mindset is set in darkness. 

He loves Anti _so_ much.

“That too.” He allows Anti that. Now that they’re working together on every kill, he supposes it couldn’t hurt to let Anti have as much fun as he wants to have.

Getting into the house isn’t an issue at all--the locks are easy enough to pick open, and for someone so “important,” the place is surprisingly low security. Dark had been expecting an alarm system of some sort, an anti-theft mechanism that would alert the young lady of the house to an intruder’s presence, but maybe it’s disabled because she’s home. It’s hard to say. 

Every room in the house is dark except for the kitchen and one bedroom, which indicates that someone has taken residence behind the closed door. Dark considers briefly just kicking down the door and killing her right there, but even if this has to be a quick kill, there isn’t any rule against having a little fun. 

A soft voice lulls through the door, indistinguishable in tone or inflection, but it doesn’t sound like a girl’s voice by any means. This is a good sign--something is playing, perhaps an audiobook or music or a television program, all of which entail a distraction. 

Distractions are good.

Resting his hand on the doorknob, he twists it gently, just to gauge how hard it’s going to be to break the lock. A young girl home alone probably locks her doors at night.

Anti is remarkably silent next to him, letting Dark roam in his element at his own pace. Anti’s way, the girl would already be dead and they’d be carving the heart out of her by now, but taking his time satisfies the craving seeded deep within him. Besides, Anti would be unbearable if he had his way all the time. 

To his surprise, the door opens with ease, creaking as it lets a sliver of light pass into the dark hallway. He sucks in a sharp breath, not having anticipated that, and Anti shifts next to him. When the other sniffs in disapproval, he knows Anti’s pissed. 

He’ll get over it.

The shuffling of covers greets him, and movement comes from within the room. It’s tentative and slow, frightened, akin to that of a startled animal, before the door opens.

Dark moves without thinking. Grabbing her jaw with his gloved hands, he pushes her backwards, and when she stumbles out of balance, shoves her to the floor. She shrieks, squirming beneath him with a surprising amount of strength for such a tiny girl. It takes all of the self control Dark had worked up on the car ride over not to snap her neck just so she’ll shut up. They’re trying not to get caught.

All at once, though, she stops struggling. Dark squints, gazing down at her with a mute curiosity as she mumbles from beneath his hands, “...Markiplier?”

He meets her eyes. Anti peers in, obviously confused to hear the name of Dark’s host’s YouTube personality, regarding her with a sense of scrutiny. 

The background noise hadn’t been an audiobook after all. Both of them realize that it’s a YouTube video. 

Two beats pass. 

Mark fucking _screams_.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, get off get off her this wasn’t part of the deal THIS WASN’T PART OF THE DEAL, DARK_

**You say that as though we had a deal** , Dark snarls back. The pounding headache from Fischbach’s whining has already began and he hasn’t even started killing the bitch yet. **Shut up. Let me do my job.**

_YOU CAN’T KILL HER SHE RECOGNIZES YOU THIS ISN’T FAIR_

**She won’t recognize me for much longer** , Dark offers a soft smile to the girl, her eyes lighting up in recognition and though still with a twinge of fear, admiration. **It’s not fair that I’m stuck in your pathetic body, but that also won’t be for much longer.**

Dark casts a glance to Anti from over his shoulder, and though he’s showing hardly any outward signs of conflict, he can tell by the way his frame stiffens that McLoughlin recognizes the girl as well. 

“Snap her neck at be done with it,” Anti barks, his voice coming out sharper than normal.

“I must be dreaming,” Theresa, that’s her name, begins to murmur, obviously not processing fully what Anti has just said. “Mark and Jack. In my house. God, that medicine must have been strong.”

She’s babbling about something and Dark’s getting tired of hearing it. He wraps his fingers tightly around her throat, pressing down.

“Okay, sweetheart, this is how this is going to go,” Dark grins at her, all teeth and full of bad promises. He presses down harder, taking pleasure in how she struggles to breathe beneath his unwavering grip. “You’re going to keep your mouth shut while we cut your heart out of your chest. If you’re good, we’ll only take your heart. Be bad and we’ll cut out your tongue and each individual finger ensuite.”

Any cheeriness at seeing the two familiar faces leaves her. Theresa has gone deathly pale, almost matching Anti, she’s so pale. Wisely, she says nothing, or perhaps she’s just in shock from his news.

_Oh god oh god just snap her neck just snap her neck don’t cut it out with her still alive please Dark please I’m begging you don’t do this don’t do this_

**As if I’d ever listen to you** , Dark mocks him.

“Baby,” he says aloud, and Anti’s eyes snap to him. “You have your knife?” 

“Always,” Anti pulls it out, and where he’d been hiding it, Dark doesn’t know. He hasn’t cared to find out yet, because it puts him at some sort of ease, having a secret weapon. Not that it could do anything to Dark, but he allows Anti the small comfort. 

“Fantastic!” Dark laughs, holding up his hand. A few beats pass before he feels the weight of the weapon in his palm. “Thank you, Anti.”

Anti walks around the girl’s body and kneels down, his fingers clutching her arms in a vice grip. She gasps, startled by his sudden strength, and Dark taps the knife thoughtfully onto her chest. 

“Let’s begin, shall we?” he sings. “Make sure she doesn’t move, okay baby?”

Mark howls in anguish as Dark raises the knife and plunges it into her skin. 

_Dark Dark no no stop stop stop stop stop please please you don’t have to do this find someone else there’s someone who can take her place you don’t have to use her PLEASE DARK PLEASE_

If he were on the outside, Fischbach would be crying big, ugly crocodile tears, and it’s fucking stupid because he doesn’t even know this girl personally. Dark doesn’t particularly care too much as Theresa blubbers, kicking and bucking against the both of them as he carves into her chest. Dark really does have half a mind to cut her tongue out, but there’s not enough time and he doesn’t particularly feel like getting bitten in the process.

The familiar buzz from blood splattered gloves ignites within him, and Dark finds himself sighing in some sort of relief after tearing into skin for so long, and the girl has long since stopped moving, perhaps dead, perhaps passed out, he doesn’t really care. He doesn’t really know if humans could even live through having their chests cut open.

His grin is razor sharp as the blood and organs squelch beneath his fingers, almost wishing he could tear into her, taste the iron and warmth on his tongue. She’d be sweet, he thinks. Full of drained life. 

Fischbach is sobbing, broken, whispering over and over please please please please as though he’s going to stop now, as though he’ll ever stop wreaking havoc in his life. 

**This will be you soon** , Dark tells him gleefully. **I’ll cut you open and tear you apart. Just as weak and helpless as she was.**

There’s a pounding headache behind his eyes, and whether it’s an intentional, feeble attempt to cause him pain or an unintentional consequence of Fischbach’s grief, he can’t be sure. But after his declaration, Fischbach’s begging stops completely, his head a dull void save for the stupid headache. 

“Do ya think you could speed this up?” Anti hisses, snapping him back to the task at hand. He’s up to his elbows in blood, not having even realized it. “I’d like to get the fuck out of dodge before someone calls the police. She wailed like a fucking banshee. So much for following through with your promise.”

“Next time I’ll let you do it,” Dark drawls, making an effort to placate him. “Okay?”

He rips the heart out with an iron yank, and Anti winces back when blood splashes onto his face. It’s only a few drops, but nevertheless, it’s kind of disgusting for him, apparently.

“I’m going to the car,” Anti says, wiping the blood off his face with his sleeve. “Give me the heart. I’ll put it away. Get rid of the body, _now_.”

Dark beams at him as he places the heart gingerly into Anti’s outstretched hand.

~~

The night is so black and desolate that Dark considers turning off the headlights just for fun. 

Anti hasn’t really spoken to him since the kill, and when he’d returned to the car he’d been sitting in silence, unmoving. He’s got the feeling Anti’s mad at him for something, but he can’t really figure out what. Then again, when does Anti ever need a reason to be mad?

Fischbach also hasn’t made a peep since they’d left the house, and he wonders if Anti’s own emotions are convoluted because of McLoughlin inside him. 

He clicks the headlights off for a few seconds to have that fun he’s been thinking about, the dark road stretching out before them in an ominous line, and Anti scoffs, “Christ. Not on this road, Dark. You’re going to get us and these flimsy carcasses killed.”

“Relax,” Dark soothes. “It’ll be fine, baby. No one ever comes down this way.”

The hum of the tires on the pavement is the only sound audible, and it reminds him of radio static. Anti says nothing else, but the tension is evident, and he wonders what’s put Anti so on edge. Normally he’s not this bitchy about Dark’s mannerisms and behavior.

They’re almost back onto the main road when an ear-splitting siren rings out. A heavy tension settles between the both of them as blue and red lights flash in the mirrors. 

Dark doesn't make an effort to slow down at all. Anti says nothing for a few beats. 

Then, “Pull over.”

He turns on him sharply, confused by Anti’s sudden willingness to comply. His partner’s expression is masked in blankness, and his sheer confusion is what causes Dark to slow down eventually to a stop. 

Neither of them move. Anti sits back in his chair, as though relaxing, but the aura he’s giving off is anything but relaxed. It seems to Dark that Anti is calculating how the next few moments are going to play out. 

He molds his face into the same sort of look Anti’s giving, before he rolls down the window. 

The human cop appears in the window, shining a flashlight in on the both of them. He’s somewhere up there in age, at least ten years older than the two of them, perhaps more. Dark’s never been good at guessing numbers.

“Evening, son,” the human says, and it takes every ounce of Dark’s self control not to mock his gravelly voice. “You know why I pulled you over?”

“‘Cause you’re a little bitch?” he finds himself saying anyway, surprised Fischbach isn’t chiming in at this point to unload a clip of scathing comments at his blatant disrespect. “You’ve got nothing better to do?”

This man must have the patience of a saint. He hardly reacts as he replies, “Driving without your headlights on is illegal, son. Also, after clocking you, you were going over the speed limit by about twenty miles. You know on these back roads it’s 45, don’t you? Going 60 or more is grounds for reckless driving.”

“Boo hoo,” Dark shrugs. “No one was out here. I don’t see the issue.”

“I’m gonna need you to step out of your vehicle,” the cop tells him plainly. “Your friend, too.”

Anti hardly breathes as his hand is already drifting towards the handle, opening the door in a fluid movement. Following his lead, Dark steps out of the car, as the cop drawls, “License and registration, please.” 

Turning his back on him, Dark reaches above the visor and pulls out the paper he knows Fischbach keeps there, assuming Anti’s got some sort of plan, as he hasn’t said anything yet. He turns back around and hands the paper to him, before fishing the wallet out of his pocket. 

He hands him Fischbach’s license, and the cop takes it from him. The cop does a quick glance over the license and then shines it in his eyes, as though confirming there’s a match. 

Dark opens his mouth to make some snarky ass comment about how the photo is old, but he doesn’t get the chance. The sound of shoes scraping on the road alert the both of them, but before the cop can say anything, Anti’s elbow is wrapping around his neck, locking him in a chokehold.

But the hold doesn’t last. With his heightened strength, Anti has no problems yanking the cop to the ground, withdrawing his knife to stab him in the shoulder before pulling it out, only to repeat the motion a few more times. 

The cop is fucking shrieking. Grabbing the side of his face, Anti drops the knife, putting his hand on the back of the bastard’s neck. He twists it sharply, a sickening pop echoing between them. 

All goes still. Anti tosses the body away from him, his breath coming out sporadically, as though he hadn’t breathed through that whole situation. He kneels down and picks up his knife, the droplets of blood still hanging off the tip.

“Your fingerprints are going to be all over him,” Dark says blankly, looking down at the now lifeless face. “We can’t leave him here.” 

“Burn the body for all I care,” Anti snaps. “Let’s get back to the fucking hotel.”

~~

The drive home is as silent as ever, this time with the headlights on and the air between them stale with unspoken fear. 

It could have been worse, Dark thinks. There could have been more than one cop. It could’ve been on the mainway, with hundreds of witnesses. 

Anti’s smoking again, which means he’s anxious about something, but Dark doesn’t see the big deal. Body’s taken care of, no one will ever know that they had anything to do with it. 

They’re almost there. They’re almost done with all of this. Soon, they can disappear off the grid and leave these deteriorating carcasses forever. 

He’s not accustomed to any sort of paranoia, but a little voice that could be Fischbach but distinctly isn’t hisses, _but it could have been worse._

The voice echoes his own earlier thoughts and twists them, and suddenly he realizes that _it could have been worse._

Gripping the steering wheel tighter, Dark inhales the second-hand smoke and tries to get back to the hotel without breaking any more speeding laws. 

~~

They’ve barely entered the room when Dark slams the door, grabbing Anti by the hood of his jacket and throwing him into the wall.

Anti’s lips form a swear, but the words never fully get out as Dark kisses him roughly, wanting to feel him, wanting to assure himself that they’ve both still here and that they got home in one piece, and that the night’s been a success. 

The palms of Anti’s hands are pressing against his chest, pushing against him, but Dark grabs Anti’s face and just _holds_ , his fingernails likely leaving indentations in his scalp. He bites down on the other’s lower lip, satisfied when the warm taste of iron hits his tongue. 

Dark isn’t used to feeling this unsure about things. Months of work could’ve been blown today, just because he wanted to have a little fun. But more than that, the image of Anti snapping that cop’s neck, stabbing him repeatedly over and over, watching him hold down that girl as he ripped her heart from his chest, it excites the hell out of him.

Months of work could’ve been wasted, but it isn’t and they’ve won. 

There are only a few chakras left to go. Two for Anti, one for Dark. It’ll take a few weeks at most to scope out their final targets, which is miniscule compared to the expanse of time they’ve spent thus far. 

Even if Fischbach gains control again, even if McLoughlin manages to gain control somehow, they can’t undo this work. They’re not strong enough. All these kills by their hands, neither of them could ever handle it, the weight of what’s been done in their bodies. 

They’ve won.

Anti’s nails scrape along his neck, jolting him back to the task at hand. He pulls away, briefly, allowing both of them to pull air into their mortal lungs. 

“You could’ve ruined everything tonight,” Anti breathes against him. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

Dark kisses him again, this time shorter, before he mumbles back, “But I didn’t. We won.” 

He takes it as a sign of agreement as when Anti yanks him back into another sloppy kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks so much for your patience in our upload schedule. Thanks for all the comments and kudos and we sincerely appreciate everything!


	22. i'm a goner, somebody catch my breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though I'm weak and beaten down,  
> I'll slip away into this sound,  
> The ghost of you is close to me,  
> I'm inside-out, you're underneath.
> 
> (Don't let me be gone.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is over 11.3k on Word, and while it's the longest BWAC chapter to date, I'm pretty sure it's the least plot heavy up until the end. That said, HERE COMES THE PORN.
> 
> A lot of you saw this coming, and it's a brief diversion from the main conflict until we start shifting into MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE once the next chapter hits. Enjoy it while it lasts.
> 
> Title and summary from Goner by Twenty One Pilots.

There’s a reason Anti handles all the public relations, and it’s not because he likes talking to people.

“Just wait in the car,” he says, sliding out of the driver’s seat. “You’re in no shape to be mingling with the locals.”

Dark just stares out the window at yet another nondescript hotel, head propped up against his fist.

“Whatever,” he grunts. “As long as I don’t have to speak to anyone, I don’t give a shit.”

Dark’s mood had dropped like a stone once he’d woken up this morning, groggy and complaining of a headache. Anti had still been riding the high of killing that cop and being pissed that Dark had almost gotten them in trouble, so he hadn’t paid him much attention.

The morning had been uneventful, save for Dark moping around and twitching every time Anti spoke too loud or sirens wailed from outside their room. They’d driven for hours, eating up most of the day with silence and stops to grab food and supplies.

As the miles had dragged on, Dark’s face had gotten cloudier and he’d been less receptive to inquiry or touch of any kind. Anti’s not much for comfort, but he’d asked more than once if Dark had control of whatever was going down in his head, and most of the time his only answer had been angry grunting.

At a gas station just two hours ago—Anti  had been too impatient to bother with diner stops—someone had bumped into Dark outside and he’d nearly caused a scene, right there in broad daylight. Anti had seen the veins in his neck stand out, the curl of his fingers, and the flare of his nostrils.

Stepping between Dark and that kid had been an act of self-preservation on his and Dark’s part, not so much on the other guy’s behalf.

He’d offered to let Dark curl up in the backseat and sleep off whatever havoc Mark had been wreaking behind those eyes, slowly bleeding red as the day wore on, but Dark had declined with a snarl and pressed his cheek to the car window instead. They’d driven in more silence, the stale air like a fog between them, and Anti had hated every moment of it.

Now, it’s pitch black outside and Dark’s eyes are blood red and stark against the false light of the dashboard. He’s barely spoken a word to Anti since this morning.

“Give me two minutes,” he replies, as reassuring as he can muster. “Don’t blow a fucking gasket while I’m gone.”

He slams the door and locks it behind him. Dark doesn’t even flinch.

Anti speeds through the check in process, probably frightening the concierge out of her mind in his haste to get back to the car and get Dark into a locked room. It’s one of _those_ nights, and Anti can feel that it’s going to be a long one.

Dark gets antsy and unraveled sometimes, and when that happens Anti can do one of two things: he can set Dark free and let him strangle a few pedestrians, or he can keep him under wraps and calm him down by his own methods.

Tonight, it’s looking like the latter, because they’ve already been chased by the cops once, and Anti isn’t risking anything this far into the game. If Dark wants to break something, he can smash a lamp and get the fuck over it.

His hoodie—the one he’d stolen from Dark and never given back—prickles against his skin in the bite of the chilly wind, but it does fuck all to warm him up on his way back to the car. The longer he and Dark are outside, the more dangerous it gets for the both of them. Dark will blow their cover in seconds if he doesn’t get his fix soon, and he’s verging on the eerie calm he usually exhibits right before he wheels around and starts tearing out throats.

“Third floor, fifth room,” he says, jumping back into the driver’s seat, talking just to fill the air. Both of Dark’s hands are in fists, and his eyes are so bright Anti’s vision swims. “I’ll grab our stuff.”

He drives around to the back, as far from the rest of the hotel patrons as he can manage, and shoulders both bags. Dark is more likely to try and bludgeon someone to death with their luggage than carry it at this particular moment.

There’s no movement from the passenger side of the car, and Anti takes a deep, steadying breath. Dark’s never tried to attack him point blank during an episode like this, but he’s never suffered this badly in front of Anti either.

He slams the trunk, heart tight in his chest as he rounds the car and pries Dark’s door open.

“Come on,” he murmurs, gritting his teeth as he reaches for Dark’s shoulder, palms out. “We’re going inside, Dark. Get up, let’s go.”

Dark just looks at him, and for a moment, Anti thinks he’s not going to budge. His eyes bleed red light into the interior of the car and Anti can’t see anyone at home behind them.

“Dark,” Anti growls and squeezes Dark’s shoulder. “Don’t check out on me now, asshole. I’m not getting confronted out here because you couldn’t drag your ass inside and practice some self control. Get up.”

It’s a risk, prodding Dark instead of soothing him, but Anti is impatient and the clock is ticking. He needs to get Dark inside, precautions be damned.

Dark peels himself from the seat, eyes laser focused on Anti’s face like twin pinpricks of deadly light. It stirs something in Anti’s gut: the genuine terror that Dark could snap at any second, combined with the way the shadows contour his face.

Anti ignores the twist of fear and backwards arousal and focuses on the reality that he’s walking a fine line here, trying to control someone who’s on the verge of combusting. Dark’s only playing along because he’s got enough good sense to know that letting go means trouble for the both of them, but that sense seems to be rapidly decaying.

They take the elevator, and Anti eyes Dark’s hands shaking by his sides. This is the worst it’s been since their fight, since Dark had nearly sunk his fist into Anti’s face. He must be imagining necks snapping beneath his fingers like toothpicks, hands flexing around soft skin and spindly bones.

Anti’s the only thing standing between Dark and a full blown massacre, and tonight he’s going to have to make a sacrifice of himself.

“Almost there,” he mutters to himself, and Dark’s head follows the sound of his voice. He’s homing in on Anti, fixating on him, putting him on a pedestal and thinking about defiling him from down below.

Anti’s skin crawls.

The doors open and he has to put all of his brainpower into not running away as fast as possible. He keeps his pace even and doesn’t look behind him, stride swallowing up the ground between himself and their room just fast enough to split the distance between them.

Dark presses up against him at the door, chest flush with Anti’s back as he fumbles with the keycard, and Dark’s breath clouds heavy on the fabric of his stolen hoodie.

“Get it open,” he orders, and Anti bashes his quivering knuckles against the scarred wood.

“Fucking give it a rest,” he snarls, but the malice in it is full of holes.

He shoves open the door after two more tries and a lot of heavy breathing, and Dark shoulders him aside, grabbing his bag from Anti and disregarding any possibility for conversation.

The bathroom door slams behind him, Dark’s white t-shirt disappearing behind the swinging wood.

Anti groans, listening out for the sound of feet on tile, glass breaking, anything. Dark doesn’t normally hide himself away like this—that’s Anti’s thing and he doesn’t like the way the tables have turned.

He crashes onto the bed, slinging an arm over his forehead and tearing off his eyepatch like it’s a parasite clinging to his face. He glares at the ceiling, Dark’s hoodie bunching beneath his shoulders and neck.

 _‘He sure is moody tonight,’_ McLoughlin comments, sharper than usual. He’s been moodier too, ever since yesterday’s events with the fan and the cop, and Anti can only guess as to why.

 **‘Probably because your sweetheart is messing with his brain,’** Anti replies, jaw tightening. **‘Mark’s kind of an asshole, I’ve noticed.’**

The silence stretches for a moment, dry and empty.

 _‘That’s fucking rich,’_ McLoughlin-- _Jack_ laughs, but he doesn’t sound happy. _‘After what happened yesterday with that poor girl, and you’ve got the balls to call Mark an asshole?’_

 **‘It’s frustrating that neither of you know when to quit,’** Anti tells him pointedly. **‘All of this would be so much easier if you both would just lie down and die.’**

 _‘Easier for who?’_ Jack asks, and his irritation mingles with Anti’s until their reactions are indecipherable from one another's. _‘For you? For Dark? For someone I actually give a damn about?’_

 **‘For all of us.’** Anti only says it to shut him up, but of course, it doesn’t work. **‘If you and Mark would go quietly there’d be a lot less suffering on everyone’s parts.’**

Jack makes a disbelieving noise. _‘Forgive me for having a little more self respect than that,’_ he jabs. _‘I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about it, seeing as you’re obviously content to bend over backwards for Dark when he’s feeling bitchy.’_

 **‘That’s just…’** Anti pauses for effect, and because he knows it annoys the shit out of Jack. **‘Petty. You’re really petty, you know that? I’m kind of embarrassed to be sharing a head with you right now.’**

 _‘The feeling’s mutual.’_ There’s another awkward pause. _‘You don’t understand what it’s like to be in my place at all, do you?’_

Anti rolls over on the bed and listens out for Dark. He can hear the shower running, but he doubts it’s because Dark’s actually feeling filthy.

 **‘What?’** he asks. **‘I don’t understand how it feels to be locked in a cage that’s too small for me? To be ignored and stuck with someone 24/7 who didn’t give a damn about what I wanted or needed? To be miserable? Feel free to stop me anytime you want.’**

If Jack could give him a nasty look, Anti imagines he would.

 _‘You know what I mean,’_ he says, venomous and tired. _‘All of those problems are self-created. You stole this body that’s too small for you, you were too weak to leave Dark behind, and if you’re miserable it’s because your expectations are too high. Don’t expect a pity party from me.’_

An eye for an eye. **‘I wouldn’t expect the same from me, either.’** Anti’s head is hurting again, but it’s more from the entirety of this conversation than from Jack making an actual fuss. **‘We’re cut from the same cloth, you know.’**

 _‘I can see that.’_ Jack’s not denying it anymore, and Anti wonders if it’s somber realization, or the impending promise of death that’s feeding his acceptance. _‘You have all of my weaknesses, and I have all of yours.’_

Anti hates cryptic comebacks unless he’s the one wielding them, so he huffs.

 **‘I can only imagine what you think my biggest weakness is,’** he mocks, pricking at the bubble of Jack’s confidence. **‘What is it? Greed? Vanity? My decomposing left eye?’**

_‘Pride.’_

**‘What?’**

_‘Your biggest weakness is pride, and so is mine,’_ Jack tells him simply, as though they’re kicked back together smoking and having a drink. _‘I was too proud to go for help when you first started attacking me, I was too proud to admit that I was in love with Mark, and I sat there steeped in denial when you told me how much we were alike._

_‘Since I’ve been young, all I’ve ever been is too proud to listen to what people have told me. When I was a teenager I was the baby of the family and I hated it. I didn’t take advice from anyone—everything always had to be on my terms, or it wasn’t good enough. For years I was a no-good slack off, and then I was a workaholic, always flipping back and forth between extremes without ever admitting I needed to sit back and take a breath.’_

Jack keeps going and Anti listens, less because he’s sympathetic and more because it’s weird hearing the other half of yourself talk about his life so openly.

 _‘I act like a kid and I talk a lot because it just got easier to do that somewhere along the way,’_ Jack says softly. _‘I think being too proud to look past yourself comes in a lot of different forms, and I’ve always only ever been pigheaded or childish.’_

He quiets, and Anti can hear the sound of the shower still running.

 _‘I know you’re worried about him,’_ Jack cuts into his own tirade with an unexpected mental right hook. _‘I know you’re too proud to admit it.’_

Anti snorts rudely. **“Are you gonna psychoanalyze me now?’** he sniggers. **‘Tell me how my own pride will be my downfall and I’ll live to regret being such an arrogant bastard?’**

 _‘It’s amazing,’_ Jack replies, with something close to wonderment in his voice. _‘How you can predict your own future like that.’_

 **‘Fuck off.’** There’s no good response for that. **‘We’re plenty alike, sure, but don’t be projecting your own insecurities on me like that. We’re not twins.’**

 _‘We don’t have to be.’_ Jack sounds very far away all of a sudden. _‘I’ve just had a lot of time to get to know the both of us in here. I call it like I see it.’_

Anti would kill for a distraction right now. Anything to put an end to this conversation. There’s nothing he hates more than self-exploration, especially when it’s spearheaded by your snooty, sarcastic other half.

 _‘I know you don’t care,’_ Jack keeps going despite Anti’s lack of a response, _‘but I really do love Mark, and I’d give anything to see him again.’_

Anti stands up from the bed, as though walking away from the mattress means walking away from this back and forth between himself and Jack. He stops in front of the bathroom door, locked shut behind Dark.

“Dark?” he calls, knocking twice. “You can’t stay in there forever; you know that right?”

 _‘That time he took back control from Dark—’_ Jack brings up the memory and it’s like an poison thorn in Anti’s side— _‘it killed me not to be able to talk to him. It’s been months since I’ve really seen him in my own body.’_

“Hey!” Anti bangs harder on the door. Dark isn’t answering and the shower is still running. ‘Dark, I’m serious. I don’t trust you on your own in there, you fucking baby. Get out and quit hiding your tears behind the water.’

 _‘I never got to tell him how I felt.’_ There’s pain in Jack’s voice, old and faded but still resilient. _‘He told me he loved me and then we were both just gone. Fuck, Anti, you don’t know what you’ve done to us.’_

More silence. Anti’s getting angrier, and he’s not adverse to breaking down the door. Dark _needs_ to answer him.

 _‘I’m fucking begging you, just let me say goodbye. You owe me that, at least.’_ He’s distraught, his desperation feeding into Anti’s anxiety. _‘If I’m going to die just let me die knowing I told him the truth.’_

“Dark, fucking hell, let me see you!” Anti punches the door so hard his knuckles burn and the wood dents. “I _will_ break this door in half and I _will_ let you take all the blame!”

The shower stops and so does Jack, reduced to soft, sad sounds in the back of Anti’s head. There’s a rock in his throat, but he doesn’t know if it’s his anxiety or if it’s a symptom of its previous owner’s devastation.

Anti waits, breathing hard and angry that he’s managed to let Jack and a locked door get him this worked up over what’s probably nothing.

He hears the slosh of wet footsteps, slow and heavy against the tile, and then the doorknob’s turning.

Dark’s there, soaking wet and wearing a towel, overgrown hair dripping into his eyes and down his chin. His eyes are still red.

“You’re wasting all the hot water,” Anti growls, even though this is a nice hotel and the hot water is probably almost endless. “What are you even doing in there?”

Dark just stares at him, opening the door a little wider. Anti steers his gaze away from the tanned, wet skin and resists the urge to follow the water trails with his good eye.

His shoulders sag.

“Just get out here,” he relents, unable to withstand Dark’s eerie, hard stare. “You’re driving me crazy all holed up in there by yourself.”

Dark shuts the door, cutting off the steam and light and Anti feels cold. He wraps his arms around himself and goes to wait in the chair, because the bed feels off limits now that he’s alone again.

-.-

Dark comes out almost five minutes later, wearing a new t-shirt and boxers and a blank expression. He moves soundlessly towards the bed and sinks down onto it, fisting both hands in his hair and hiding his eyes from Anti’s sight.

“Dark,” Anti begins, trying to stow his irritation and the desire to just leave Dark here to sulk. Dark does not do well on his own, and he never has. “What’s your fucking problem?”

Dark’s answer is muffled by his hands, so Anti comes closer, steeling himself. He can’t imagine any way Dark’s going to be able to sleep this off, not tonight. He’s too strung out and twitchy.

“Hey.” Anti swallows his pride— _ha_ —and climbs onto the bed after Dark, maneuvering until he can straddle his lap and get his own hands in Dark’s hair with shaking fingers. “You need to calm down. You need to calm down right now, _mo ghrá_. You’ll get your way soon enough, just not tonight.”

Dark lets out a shuddering breath. He sounds like he’s in pain.

“He makes me so fucking angry,” he says, ragged. “I think I’ll be more free when he dies than when our bodies change.”

“Who?” Anti asks, even though he knows the answer. He needs to keep Dark talking, communicating with words and actions. If he slips too far away into himself, Anti will have no means of reaching him until it’s too late. “You have to be honest with me or I can’t help you.”

“ _Mark_.” It’s the first time Dark’s ever spoken his human self’s real name aloud, and he says it like he’s trying to grind the letters up between his teeth. Anti pets his hair, even as Jack wriggles uncomfortably at the sound of Mark’s name. “All he does is fucking scream at me, and I want him gone. He has to go _now_ , Anti. I can’t take it anymore.”

Anti understands. Jack, no matter how pretentious and mouthy, has always been more bearable for him than Mark is for Dark. He imagines that might be why Dark lost control that one time, and why he’s always so quick to spout off when he’s angry.

“You need to be calm,” he repeats, as Dark buries his face in Anti’s neck. Murder and Anti are Dark’s two greatest loves, but only one of them is going to satisfy him tonight. “If you’re a ticking time bomb it’s only because of what he’s doing to you. Shut him down, don’t be a pussy.”

“You don’t understand.” Dark loops his arms around Anti’s waist and crushes him close. His shoulders shake. “It _hurts_.”

Anti knows they’re both coming to the end of their ropes. He can withstand Jack for some time longer, but these bodies aren’t strong enough to support two souls at once. Dark is flagging quicker, bending beneath the weight of someone as bullheaded and persistent as Mark, and if they drag this out much longer then everything is going to crumble to dust.

“Look at me.” Anti tugs Dark’s chin up until they’re eye to eye, and his mouth thins into a sharp line. “He can’t hurt you. You said it yourself just yesterday, we’ve won. We’re okay. Nothing is going to get in our way anymore. Don’t think I’m gonna let you get away with bowing out on me now, just because some human is giving you a fucking headache.”

 _‘What will happen to him if this keeps up?’_ Jack’s faking concern, whispering like he gives a damn about what happens to Dark in this scuffle. Anti scowls.

 **‘If he gives out it’ll be because the body dies,’** he says, watching Dark grit his teeth in pain. **‘If that happens, Mark goes too. It’s a lose-lose for all of us.’**

 _‘Why am I not surprised that no matter what happens, Mark’s going to die?’_ Jack spits. _‘Let me guess, the same thing is going to happen to us if you don’t work your magic in time?’_

 **‘Either two of us die or all of us do,’** Anti smooths Dark’s hair back and lets himself be held. **‘You shouldn’t be surprised we’re invested in the outcome in which Dark and I get to live.’**

 _‘Am I supposed to sympathize with you or something?’_ Jack doesn’t sound placated, but Anti turns away from him in favor of quieting Dark.

“Tell me what I need to do,” he orders, thumbs stroking the sweaty skin beneath his hands. “Tell me how to get you through the night and we can keep working tomorrow, no more days off.”

“Fuck, I don’t _know_ ,” Dark growls into the hollow of Anti’s throat and Anti shivers involuntarily. “I just want to be done with all of this. I’m so fucking sick of waiting.”

That’s a feeling Anti knows all too well.

“Do you need a distraction?” he asks, struggling with the offer. Anti doesn’t give out freebies very often, if ever, but Dark is writhing in his arms and he’s reaching his breaking point.

 _‘You’re such a whipped bitch,’_ Jack sneers thickly, and Anti couldn’t care less. _‘You’re as gone on him as he is on you.’_

The following ‘takes one to know one’ is unspoken, but Anti’s silence is enough of a rebuttal.

“I need _something_ , I--.” Dark’s all messed up, sentences falling apart and brain overloading. Anti wishes it were as easy as just sleeping it all off ‘til morning– “I just need you to keep me in here and stop me from ruining everything.”

Anti rests his head on top of Dark’s and thinks. He could go out and bring someone here, let Dark slice them up and take out his aggression until he’s loosened up and the red in his eyes has faded. He could let Dark yell, scream, _punch_ his way back to clarity right here in this motel room, or he could just give in.

“You’re so shaky,” he says, coming to a decision. He breathes into Dark’s damp hair. “You’re coming apart at the seams, Dark.”

“I can’t drown him out.” Anti’s grip tightens at Dark’s low, wounded whines. “Fuck, he’s too much. I can’t drown him out.”

“Shhh.” Anti combs his hands through Dark’s hair and tilts his head back up. “Don’t focus on him. Focus on me. Focus on us.”

He kisses Dark, hungry and demanding, meant to distract. Dark latches onto him tighter than before, locking Anti’s knees around his waist and clutching his hips, eagerly sliding his tongue in between Anti’s lips. He’s desperate for something else, something Anti’s never given him before, and tonight’s the night to do it, if any night ever was.

They’ve kissed like this many times, fast and dirty, Dark’s hands roaming and claiming every inch of skin they touch while Anti holds on and _takes_. It’s a perfect push and pull between them, hot and right and so, so satisfying.

“Don’t even give him the time of day,” Anti murmurs into Dark’s mouth, unsure of what to do with his hands this time around. He wants to touch everything, to mold himself closer to Dark until they wake up a million times stronger, better, and alone together. “Don’t let him drown me out.”

Dark kisses him harder, lips speaking with actions instead of words, making up for his struggle to talk. It’s strange seeing Dark so silent when they’re together like this. He’s always talking, rambling on about the way Anti looks beneath him, the things he wants to do to his body, how much he wants him.

In reality, Dark has never been about using his words when he could throw his weight around instead, but that quirk apparently vanishes once they reach the bedroom. Anti’s used to Dark running his mouth consistently while they’re making out, and listening to him is a small price to pay for settling the hurricane of Dark’s innermost thoughts.

“He’s so jealous,” Dark muffles his words in Anti’s neck, kissing up the skin and breathing him in, clouding his senses. Anti lets him take whatever he wants. “He’s so pissed at me because I get to kiss you and he doesn’t.”

Anti gasps when Dark bites down _hard_ , and he grins.

“I don’t think he wishes it was me he was going to fuck,” he says. “I think he’s just mad we get to fuck in their bodies before they do.”

Putting it like that, it makes it all the more exhilarating to do this. They’re stealing simple pleasures and soft moments here and there, making their own memories that Mark and Jack can only watch through their eyes, but never experience for themselves.

Dark soothes the bitten skin with his tongue, but not for long.

“You wanna make them madder?” he asks, hands sliding up beneath Anti’s— _Dark’s_ —hoodie. “I can think of a million things Fischbach wants to do to his little friend that I’d love to do to you.”

“That was cheesy as hell.” Anti frowns, but he presses their foreheads together and places his hands over Dark’s on his skin, guiding them further down his front. “You’d better not disappoint me.”

Dark snorts and nips at Anti’s bottom lip. “When have I ever disappointed you?” he asks, rubbing smoothly at the hemline of Anti’s jeans. “Why wouldn’t I want to make you scream?”

Dark’s already getting mouthy, blinking away the pain and fighting back against Mark inside his head. Goosebumps, traitorous and visible, prickle up Anti’s skin and he rolls his eyes, fighting off an obvious shudder.

“I have standards,” he tells Dark dryly, murmuring the words into his jaw. “Don’t oversell yourself if you can’t pay out.”

Dark drags his nails down Anti’s skin in warning, and Anti grins harder. He didn’t offer himself as a distraction so they could take things slow. Dark’s been fixated on him for ages, begging him for attention for as long as they’ve known each other, and Anti’s done with drawing this out.

“I’ll bet you’re a screamer,” Dark hums, pressing his hips upwards into Anti’s and listening to the hitch in Anti’s breath. “All of that sullen silence and bad attitude—I bet you break so easily when you get a pair of hands on you. Hell, I bet you’ll crack twice as fast if those hands are mine.”

Anti rolls down into his lap, already able to feel the way the fabric of Dark’s boxers stretches over his dick. “Cocky,” he warns, relishing in the way Dark’s eyes flash. “All I hear is talk, no action.”

Dark responds by dragging his hoodie up and over Anti’s shoulders, tossing it aside and sliding his palms down Anti’s bare chest.

“You’re gonna regret mouthing off to me,” Dark says, fingers teasing at the fly on Anti’s jeans. Anti gets the message: Dark wants them both naked, _fast_. “You’re not gonna act like a little bitch tonight.”

“Uh-huh,” Anti fights the urge to violently roll his hips forward as those fingers tug at the button, stroking at the bulge in his jeans. “We’ll see if you’re good enough for me to stick around.”

Jack’s wriggling around in his head again, confused and unsettled. He always gets uncomfortably turned on whenever Anti and Dark are touching like this, but this time is different and Anti knows it. This time there’s intent, the promise that they’re not going to stop at just kissing, and Jack is quite literally at war with himself.

 **‘You should just sit back and enjoy it,’** Anti says, kissing Dark as his fly comes loose and Dark slides a hand inside. **‘You’ll probably never have sex this good again.’**

Jack doesn’t reply, but there’s a tension building in the back of his head and the moment Dark’s hand wraps around Anti’s cock, Jack _whines_.

It’s something Anti likes doing: opening up their channels and nerve endings until he and Jack can share the same sensations, but he only does it when he knows it’ll mess with Jack’s head, and this is definitely one of those times.

Anti breaks away from Dark and tips his head back as Dark frees him from his jeans and begins stroking, fingers fisting loosely around his cock. Dark’s still painfully hard beneath him, only wearing his boxers and a t-shirt, but he seems content to focus on Anti for the moment.

“You like that?” Dark asks, smug pleasure filtering out through his words as he watches Anti pant softly. “You like letting me touch you like this?”

Anti just groans, not bothering to dignify Dark’s questions with a response, because he’s an arrogant asshole and Anti isn’t breaking so easily.

“I’d like it more if you’d move a little faster,” he complains, breathing through the slow, smooth strokes that jumpstart tingles up and down his spine. Dark smiles toothily at him, the pain from before rapidly evaporating. Anti wonders if Mark is easily enamored by the sight of Anti on his lap.

“Too bad,” he replies, pace still achingly slow. “This is just a warm up, love. If I have my way, it’s gonna be a long, long time before I let you come.”

“Fuck you.”

Dark laughs and brushes his lips against the curve of Anti’s jaw, mouth trailing closer to his ear with every slide of his palm between Anti’s legs.

“No, baby,” he murmurs, breath hot and heavy. “I think you’ve got that backwards.”

“ _Shit_.” Anti hates how quickly his body reacts to that. He thrusts forward into Dark’s hand, fueled by desperation, and then Dark’s pulling away.

“Not so quick,” he scolds, but he’s still smiling and Anti wants to smack it off of his face. Instead, he settles for a withering glare, reaching for Dark’s hand to move it back to its former place. Dark is the worst kind of tease, and Anti wants no part of his antics—he’s doing this out of the goodness of his own heart, after all.

Dark just shakes his head, a glint flashing and dying in his eyes before he’s flipping Anti around without so much as a warning grin. Anti crash lands on his back, staring up at Dark with dazed eyes and fisting the sheets. His erection is pressing up against his stomach, poking out from the bunched mess of his jeans around his hips, and Anti thinks he must already look thoroughly debauched.

“That’s more like it.” Dark takes him in, dark red eyes trailing every inch of Anti’s skin and Anti squirms, feeling vulnerable. “I like you best when you’re under me like this. So pretty.”

Anti huffs, tugging Dark forward by the hem of his shirt and urging him down. Their lips meet and Dark relents, kissing him again, this time with his hips firmly slotting between Anti’s legs.

There was a time when Anti couldn’t have imagined letting Dark so much as touch him willingly, much less undress him with his hands and eyes or kiss him stupid with his soft, wet mouth. It’s more than a little surreal, but so is the idea that they’ve made it this far together, or that Anti’s still in one piece after so much time under Dark’s influence.

 _‘He’s no good,’_ Jack whispers, voice tainted with arousal. _‘He’s got you under his thumb, Anti. You’re going to regret ever giving him his way, even if he sees you through to the end of this.’_

 **‘Shut up.’** Anti doesn’t want to hear it. He knows Dark is terrible, but he doesn’t care. They’re all terrible. **‘You don’t get to tell me what I should or shouldn’t want.’**

Dark breaks away from kissing him just long enough to bite at Anti’s bottom lip. There’s something in his gaze that transcends the red shock of his irises and the sharpening slant of his teeth, but Anti can’t put a name to it.

“I should tell you that I still love you,” he breathes into Anti’s mouth. It sounds like a threat and a promise all in one. “I know you don’t believe me, but I’ve decided that doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

Anti has no response for that. Instead, he kisses him again, and Jack sighs, heavy and resigned in his head.

 _‘It’s your funeral,’_ he says, but Anti just scoffs.

 **‘No,’** he replies after a moment of letting Dark lick into his mouth and short circuit his brain with little effort. **‘It’s yours.’**

Dark doesn’t seem to notice Anti’s moment of distraction. He pulls away just long enough to yank his t-shirt over his head, and then he’s back to sealing their mouths together, kissing fast and rough, belying his soft words from seconds earlier with teeth and tongue and warm breath.

Anti slides his fingers into the edges of Dark’s boxers, thumbing at the fabric and tracing the skin in a half-hearted attempt at revenge for Dark’s teasing. Dark growls into the kiss.

“Getting eager already, baby?” he asks. Anti kisses the corner of his mouth.

“I told you I didn’t want to go slow,” he says breathily. “I don’t think you can fuck me properly with these still on.”

Dark growls again, louder. The sound vibrates against the skin of Anti’s neck, and he sucks in a breath, fingers curling in the fabric.

“Fucking tease,” Dark says, sucking a bruise into the skin and tugging again at Anti’s jeans and boxers. “If mine are coming off so are yours.”

“Turnabout is fair play.” Anti loves getting what he wants, and his toes curl in anticipation.

Dark starts pulling, rolling Anti’s jeans down his legs until he can drag them all the way off, leaving Anti completely naked and panting on the bed. He knows he must be bright red in the face, pale skin pinking and flushing beneath Dark’s hands and mouth, and the heat in his cheeks blooms in his chest.

Dark doesn’t even give Anti time to try and undress him, just steps out of the rest of his clothes and kicks everything to the side.

He’s fucking gorgeous: tan skin and pink mouth, hair wrecked from Anti’s wandering hands combing paths through the knots, and his cock hard between his legs, already damp at the tip.

Anti stares, and then blinks away when Dark grins knowingly.

“I’d kill anyone for you to blow me right now,” he chuckles, dragging his fingers along both of Anti’s thighs. “Seriously, I bet your mouth is a fucking gift. Bet you’d look so pretty beneath me, choking on my cock. _Fuck_ , Anti.”

Anti can’t deny that he’s thought about it, but he’ll never admit it aloud. Dark would have a fucking field day if he knew the kinds of things that had taken root in Anti’s brain long ago, and it’s all the more reason for him to stay quiet.

“I think about putting you on your knees all the time.” Dark spreads Anti’s legs with both palms, bending his knees until his legs are pressed up against his chest and Anti feels more exposed than ever before. “It used to kill me, imagining you with those lips wrapped around my cock, doing exactly as I’d tell you.”

He smooths back Anti’s hair with greedy, soft hands, his touch making Anti’s cock jump against his belly. Anti looks up at him, pinned to the mattress beneath Dark’s shifting eyes, bleeding from red to black to red again, over and over.

“All those times you’d try and tell me off,” Dark whispers, cupping Anti’s jaw in one large hand and pressing his thumb into the corner of his mouth. “I thought about shutting you up with my hands and my cock, fucking your throat raw. I thought about making you cry.”

He nudges his way between Anti’s neck and shoulder, and licks a slow line up the curve of muscle.

“But I didn’t,” he whispers. “I could have tied you to the bed and made you do whatever I wanted, but I didn’t.”

Anti’s voice is painful in his throat, like gravel.

“You want me to be grateful for that?” he asks roughly. He doesn’t move, can’t.

“Mmm,” Dark hums, nosing at his earlobe and laughing softly when Anti shudders. “I think you would have liked it. There’s a theory that people only act out because they want to be put in their place, and I’m beginning to think that describes you perfectly.”

 _‘Asshole,’_ Jack hisses, but it sounds like he’s still fighting off his own desire. _‘Don’t tell me you believe this shit he’s spewing at you.’_

“You’ll never prove it,” Anti gasps out, tilting his head to the side and tangling his hands in Dark’s hair. He likes pulling on it just a little too much, and he’s pretty sure Dark enjoys it even more, given the way his breath catches. “You can’t make me do anything.”

“We’ll see about that,” Dark echoes his words from earlier, nipping one more mark into Anti’s skin before he wrenches both of his hands from his hair. He moves them until Anti’s got a grip on his own legs, holding himself open, on display.

“I want you like that,” he says, running a single finger down Anti’s cock and past his balls, stroking over his perineum. Anti’s hips buck up and his face burns. He feels tied up, but by his own hands, bound by Dark’s orders and warm, firm touches.

Dark disappears for a moment, rooting around in his bag for something, and Anti listens to Jack mumbling to himself in their shared mind. He knows Jack’s still feeling everything as strongly as Anti, but he has no control over his hands or body.

‘ _Mark…_ ’ The thought floats unbidden to the forefront of Anti’s mind, but it’s not his. Jack must be imagining it’s Mark behind those demon dark eyes, giving him orders and whispering filthy things in his ears. Anti wonders if Dark’s human half even has the balls to try half of what Dark just promised, but then he remembers they’re two sides of the same coin.

 **‘Bet you’d like it if it were him talking about making you beg like a little bitch,’** Anti taunts. He’s fairly certain he and Jack share more than just a few of the same kinks, and while Anti’s exploration of what he enjoys sexually is severely limited, Jack may be a lot more confident in his desires. **‘You think he’d do it if you asked?’**

 _‘I’d take vanilla sex with Mark over having to look Dark in the eye while I’m getting fucked hard, any day,’_ Jack seethes, shooting Anti down with vicious refutation. Anti has to stop himself from laughing at how aggressively embarrassed Jack is about Dark turning him on.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by Dark returning with a bottle of lube, fingers tapping at the underside of Anti’s thigh. He grins crookedly.

“I’m gonna open you up on my fingers,” he says, the rough heat of his words going directly to Anti’s cock. “You’re gonna hold yourself open and you’re not gonna come until I say so, no matter what.”

He presses a kiss to the side of Anti’s bent knee, and Anti bites his lip hard to keep from whining out loud. His conversation with Jack melts back into oblivion, and Dark shoves his way to the helm of his thoughts once again.

“If you do, I’m not going to be happy.” Dark’s eyes pierce into his, twin daggers pinning him at the shoulders and neck and Anti huffs again.

“What’re you gonna do, punish me?” It’s less of an honest question and more of a jab, but Dark doesn’t seem to care.

He slicks up his fingers and reaches between Anti’s legs, rubbing one finger over his entrance and pressing his mouth to the skin of Anti’s already shaking knees. Anti’s sensitive as all hell, just the thought of being fingered by Dark triggering the blush on his face and chest to color him an even darker red.

“You know what I want to do most?” Dark asks, pressing just the tip of his finger forward and watching intently as Anti’s face screws up and relaxes at the cool, wet slide. “When we finally get what we deserve—what _you_ deserve?”

Anti shakes his head. “I’m surprised you haven’t already told me, seeing as you like to talk way too fucking much,” he retorts, gasping quietly when Dark crooks his finger inside of him. “Go ahead, enlighten me. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

Dark barks out a laugh and Anti can see him drinking in the way his finger disappears inside Anti, just seconds before he’s adding a second, barely giving Anti time to adjust to the first.

“The first thing I’m gonna do, once these humans are gone and our new bodies are stronger,” his voice lowers as he speaks, dipping down past a register Anti’s scarcely heard, “is fuck you in front of a mirror.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” That hits Anti like a train, all but blindsiding him with the sheer novelty of it, and he wonders why the idea of finally being able to see the both of them together through a mirror is so incredibly, unbearably hot.

“I’m gonna bend you over the counter and open you up just like this, just like I’m doing right now.” Dark scissors his fingers, stretching at his rim and Anti groans, unable to hold back the noises. “I’m gonna make you watch as I fuck you, hold you up so you can see the way you scream while I’m inside you. Nothing’s ever gonna be as beautiful as the two of us together in front of a mirror.”

“Oh, god. Dark, _fuck_.” Dark’s words are spearing him low in his belly, hot, sharp jabs on par with the thrust of his fingers, and Anti feels a bead of precome ooze from the head of his cock. “Fuck, _okay_. We can do it if you want. I’ll do it. I’ll do it.”

Dark smiles. “I know you will.”

There’s a third finger pressing its way in alongside the other two, and Anti feels so full already—three fingers and he’s already succumbing to babbling like an idiot. Jack’s not much better, his mumbling getting louder and breaking off into soft moans of Mark’s name inside Anti’s head. It should be strange, hearing his other half so smothered in pleasure at Darks hands, whispering someone else’s name, but it’s not.

Anti has no idea why he’s so profoundly affected by Dark this way, after so many weeks and months of denying him. He’s not at all immune to Dark’s words, but Anti isn’t needy, he’s not. He’s _not_.

“I love you like this.” Dark keeps talking, unable to stop himself now that he’s got Anti loose tongued and stupid. “Beautiful and vulnerable underneath me, fucking back on my fingers and thinking about begging for more. I used to think about this too, all the time. I’ve been waiting so long to get you like this, Anti.”

Anti just breathes out a whine, grunting as Dark picks up the pace, fingers grazing his prostate and Anti jerks violently at the touch, howling in surprise.

“ _Perfect_ ,” Dark leers, voice drawing out the word like it tastes sweet in his mouth. “Just let it all out, sweetheart.”

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ Dark,” Anti pleads. He doesn’t want to lose his head, humiliated at being turned soft and pliant so easily just by a few fingers, but Dark’s done something else to him. He wants more. He wants more of Dark and his fingers and his mouth and his cock, and more than anything he wants to come.

“Better be good,” Dark warns leisurely, spare hand pressing Anti down with an amazing strength, palm wrapped around his hip. “Better not come just yet.”

“God, fuck you.” Anti sucks in a sobbing breath and Dark curls his fingers, pressing against Anti’s prostate until he’s arching up off the bed. Anti wraps one hand around his cock, squeezing hard at the base and gritting his teeth. It’s so hard not to come from just this alone, but he holds off with a bloodied lip and tears pricking at his eyes.

Dark thrusts his fingers inside him once more, then pulls them away with a slick sound, leaving Anti bereft and panting on the wrinkled bedcovers.

“Good boy,” he praises, and Anti’s pride stings.

“I’m not your good boy,” he hisses, but Dark just laughs at him.

“You’re whatever I want you to be,” he says, kissing Anti’s cheek before reaching for the lube again, drizzling some onto his palm.

Anti watches him slick himself up with half lidded eyes, and he shakes with arousal and shame, smarting at the thrill Dark’s praise had given him.

“I’ll be nice,” Dark says, hand fisting his cock, red and flushed between his legs, already dripping even without the extra lube. “You said you didn’t want to take this slow, so I won’t.”

“You’d better not pussy out on me,” Anti threatens behind deep breaths, but it doesn’t have the weight he wants it to. “I’ll leave you here by yourself, I swear.”

Dark raises an eyebrow, teeth sinking into his lip as he strokes himself.

“Don’t tell me lies, babydoll,” he warns, kneeling up on the bed and rubbing his thumb over his cockhead, smearing precome across the tip. Anti’s mouth waters, but he swallows hard in denial. “I know you better than that.”

Dark lets go of himself with a soft noise and locks both hands around Anti’s hips, pushing him up the bed until there’s room for them both and Dark’s cock is brushing the side of Anti’s thigh, leaving a clear, sticky trail in its wake.

“Just get on with it.” Anti finally lets go of his legs and drags his hands across Dark’s shoulders and down his arms, just touching. “I don’t want it slow. I don’t want anything slow.”

“Greedy.” Dark purses his lips and leans back just a little, gripping his cock and pressing forward until he’s teasing at Anti’s hole, making him squirm. “I’d rather hear you beg.”

He slides inside, thick cock pressing Anti open and it burns, just right and so good inside of him. Anti whines, long and high, and Dark starts up a quick pace, making good on his promise as Anti grips his shoulders.

It hurts, with no waiting for the stretch and burn to ease up and the rush into the punishing pace Dark seems to be able to achieve so quickly. Anti’s cock is leaking onto his belly and it throbs, urging him to touch, but Dark’s locking both hands around his wrists and holding them down until he has no way of grasping at anything.

“No touching,” Dark orders, voice deeper than ever—a shock to Anti’s system. He’s deliberate and quick between Anti’s legs, never slowing, just rolling his hips forward until Anti’s mouth is falling open of its own accord.

“Feel good?” Dark starts in on Anti’s neck again, clearly intent of painting a ring of bruises and bright red marks on his skin. “You’re leaking so hard, baby. You must love this, getting held down and fucked by me and no one else.”

Anti remembers how jealous Dark had been that he’d kissed Mark, back when the human had assumed control and taunted Anti into kissing him into submission. Dark hates Mark, and he hates the idea of him getting his hands on Anti even more—that’s not a secret.

“You’re getting all green eyed on me, _a mhuirnín_ ,” he says, head tipping back again at Dark’s ministrations. He’s well aware of the irony of his own words. “What would you have done if I’d untied him and let him fuck me just that once, without your permission?”

It’s a low blow, one that pricks at something deep and primal inside of Dark. Anti thinks that if it’d been him who’d tried to sleep with the hooker, Dark would have been furious, but had Anti gone much farther than dubious kissing with Dark’s other half?

The consequences would have been bloody.

Dark bites down on his neck so hard it bleeds, and his hips turn even more bruising, balls slapping against Anti’s ass as he winces in pain.

“I’d have tortured the humanity right out of him,” he promises, lips smearing blood from the bite across Anti’s skin—he can feel the wet sting across the teeth marks. “I’d have made him scream so loud he’d have lost his head, and it would have been worth it. Fischbach can say whatever he wants about me, but he can’t have you, not ever.”

Anti laughs, but it’s cut off and garbled by a moan as Dark’s arms wraps around him and lift, until he’s got Anti pulled into a crushing grip. He stands in one swift movement, strength making quick work of Anti’s weight, and Anti gasps.

He’s pressed up against Dark’s chest, seated so firmly on Dark’s cock that he can’t imagine how much closer they could get. He whines, muffling the sound in Dark’s sweat slicked skin and his fingers leave red marks where they squeeze, grappling for purchase.

“I told you I’d make you scream for me,” Dark snarls, pacing forward with Anti folded up in his arms until he can press him up against the wall.

Anti shivers involuntarily, the cold paint of the hotel wall like ice against his too-hot skin, and he crosses his ankles around the small of Dark’s back, throwing all caution to the wind.

“Faster,” he begs, kissing up Dark’s neck and leaving marks of his own, feeling as though he’s been robbed of doing so all this time. “Faster, Dark. Fuck me. Oh god, _a mhuirnín._ ”

Dark obliges, keeping Anti lofted with a combination of sheer strength and support from the wall behind them, and he presses his forehead to Anti’s shoulder.

“I’m gonna make you tell me what those words mean,” Dark rumbles, fingers leaving what Anti knows will be black and purple bruises on his hipbones for days to come. “All those pretty things you say to me when you think I don’t notice? You’re gonna tell me what they mean, each and every one.”

Anti shakes his head furiously.

“You don’t need to know anything,” he denies, hands sliding and slipping across the expanse of Dark’s back, mindless. “They don’t mean anything. They’re just words.”

Dark growls again, slowing the movement of his hips until he’s sliding deep and slow inside of Anti, fucking him with long, slick strokes and Anti presses his face into the softness of Dark’s throat.

“God, I said _faster_ ,” he begs, hissing at the torturous drag and burn of Dark’s cock. “Not like this Dark, you promised.”

“Not until you tell me what you’ve been saying to me,” Dark taunts, one hand moving to wrap around Anti’s cock and stroke slowly. Anti keens, head knocking back against the wall.

 _‘Just fucking tell him.’_ Jack sobs inside his head, a plea from nowhere. He’s been almost quiet, just a simmering, writhing presence in the back of Anti’s head since he’d last spoke. _‘He’s gonna find out anyways. You’ve already given it up this far, so just admit it.’_

“No,” Anti protests aloud, both against Dark and Jack’s voice in his head, wrecked and trembling. He’s already feeling closer to coming, manhandled and crowded so thickly by Dark. His cock is oversensitive in Dark’s hand, and he’s torn between bucking up into it and pressing back into Dark’s slow thrusts.

“Shut up and fuck me,” he orders, hardening his voice and scratching at Dark’s shoulder blades. “Right the fuck now, Dark, I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Dark whispers, going so achingly slow it makes Anti’s head spin. There’s a heat coiling tight in his stomach but it’s not enough, he needs more. Dark’s cock drags against his prostate and Anti wails, loud and piercing in the air above them.

Dark seems satisfied at that.

“Tell me and I’ll fuck you good,” he murmurs, running a finger up the pulsing vein on Anti’s cock and kissing his jaw. “Tell me and I’ll let you come, and you can scream as hard as you want.”

“ _Ohhh…_ ” Anti’s struggling for words, struggling to make the thoughts line up in his head and Dark’s making it hard to even speak, the asshole. “Fuck, Dark, I don’t—”

“Tell me,” his lover sings, kissing his way to Anti’s lips and leaving a wet trail of sparks. “Tell me what it means when you call me ‘ _a mhuirnín_ ’.”

The way Dark says it, it’s not quite right, just a touch of a wrong accent and a bit of confusion, but the word loosens something in Anti’s chest and he slumps into Dark, defeat carving a hole in his chest.

“Goddamn you,” he mutters harshly, gritting his teeth in pain. He just wants to come, and Dark’s making it impossible. “Goddamn you Dark, for doing this to me.”

“That doesn’t sound right.” The hand on his cock squeezes a little harder, tightening the heat in his gut and stopping it from blazing any hotter. “Try again.”

Anti whines.

“ _Darling_ ,” he says, forcing the word across his tongue in English and pressing it into Dark’s skin, right at the corner of his mouth. “It means you’re my darling.”

Dark makes a noise, so wounded and guttural it sounds almost animalistic, and he grips Anti tighter, desperation trickling into his movements as he grips Anti’s ass in both hands and rocks his hips forward, sliding in and out of him again, harder this time.

“And the others?” he demands, kissing Anti between harsh breaths and quickening thrusts. “What did you say to me that time you brought me back, when you had me tied to that chair?”

“Um… _oh_ _god_.” Dark’s speeding up already, setting a steady pace and fucking him so that every inch of Anti’s back is flush with the wall. Anti tries to blink away the haze of desire and the sound of Jack moaning darkly in his head.

“ _Mo milis_ means ‘my sweet’,” he grates out, searching through his memories and the words he’d uttered back then, like they’d been pulled from his lips without his permission. “And _mo ghrá_ —it means ‘my love’. That--that’s it.”

He can feel Dark hitting his prostate on almost every thrust, the pleasure boiling in his veins and brimming over as the words keep spilling: “Are you happy? For fuck’s sake Dark, are you happy now? What more do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” Dark replies, the thrust of his hips back to bruising and perfect, fucking Anti until there’s nothing but sensation and sweat breaking out all over his skin. “Nothing and everything, anything, _fuck_.”

They’re kissing again, and Dark’s fucking the words right from his mouth, all the thoughts in his head turning to jelly and dissolving into nothing. Anti wraps his arms around Dark’s neck and holds on tight, relishing in the rough thrusts and soft touches mingling together.

He’s slipping closer to the edge, only desperate to come and to feel Dark lose control. He knows they both want more, knows that they could explore so much more than a quick and dirty fuck together, but this is the first time he’s ever had Dark and he’s going to take what he can right now.

When Anti finally lets go, it’s with a yell and a grunt, legs wrapped so tightly around Dark’s waist he can’t imagine it doesn’t hurt. His whole body is tremoring and he feels like he’s frozen in place, with vibrating limbs and fire coursing throughout his veins. Dark stares, mouth open and eyes still blood red, drinking in every whimper and shake as Anti comes apart in his arms.

 _‘Oh god, oh god. Mark, oh god,’_ Jack is rambling, loud enough to hear and he’s obviously just as gone, wasted on the sensations and the thoughts of Mark touching him, just a stone’s throw away from Dark himself. _‘Fuck, fuck please, Mark. Please.’_

It’s pitiful and Anti’s mind throbs, but the sadness isn’t his.

Dark’s enamored and sex-drunk, breath hot against Anti’s own mouth and so close to his own orgasm Anti can feel him losing control of his thrusts.

Dark snarls when he comes, gruff and primal, biting down on the ball of Anti’s shoulder and jostling him into a whimper. His hips don’t stop moving, keeping up their stuttering pace until Dark’s done making a mess of Anti’s skin, blood trickling down the edges of the wound and reddening Dark’s mouth.

He finally slows, skin sticky and overheated against Anti’s, the two of them breathing through the aftermath as Anti fists at Dark’s hair and runs his fingers through it, soothing them both.

Jack is going quiet again, sharing in the feeling of being fucked hard enough to bruise, and Anti almost feels sorry for him. He’s still murmuring Mark’s name, but it’s sad and slow, the pleasure mixing with the harsh reality of having nothing.

Anti rubs the back of Dark’s neck, scratching gently at the skin and tucking the stray strands of damp hair back from his forehead.

“I doubt you can hold us up here for much longer,” he comments, still drawing in breaths like he’s just run a marathon. “You gonna put me down?”

Dark groans softly at that, petulant and clingy.

“Never,” he says, hoisting Anti up to get a better grip on him and kissing the bloodied mark on his shoulder. “You’re going to have to put up with this forever.”

Anti rolls his eyes, wincing slightly at the sting and carding his left hand through the roots of Dark’s hair.

“I’m going to need to shower now,” he insists. “If you don’t put me down I’m gonna bite you, and not in the fun way.”

Dark snorts, almost a laugh. “I can’t think of a single scenario in which you biting me doesn’t sound at least a little bit fun,” he contradicts, but he pulls back just a little to look Anti in the eye.

It’s a slow, mildly uncomfortable slide as he pulls out of Anti and sets him down, and Anti’s legs wobble dangerously. Dark doesn’t let go, steadying him on the carpet as Anti examines the mess they’ve made of themselves.

“You’re such a fucking animal,” he says with a sneer, grimacing at the stickiness between his legs and the streaks across his stomach. “I’m gonna need to shower for a week if I ever want to be clean again.”

It’s Dark’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Don’t be such a fucking princess,” he admonishes. “It could have been so much messier.”

He says it with a wink and Anti shoves him. Dark barely budges.

“Back up,” Anti orders, pressing one palm to Dark’s chest, dead set on heading into the bathroom. “You’re clearly feeling better and you can wait to shower again once I’m done, unless you’d like to sleep on the floor.”

Dark encircles his waist with his arms and presses up against him until they’re chest to back, and he grins into Anti’s neck.

“I think I’ll shower again with you instead,” he declares, downright close to a giggle. “The stall’s plenty big enough for the both of us, and you’re going to need someone to wash your back.”

Anti groans and pushes forward, pinching at Dark’s wrist.

“You’ve had your fill for the night,” he grunts, opening the door with Dark still clinging to him. His head is quiet and the air is clear. “Try anything funny and I’ll knock you right back out of the tub.”

Dark turns on the light and kisses his cheek.

“I swear I’ll be good,” he promises, in a voice that reeks of bad behavior. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me.”

-.-

Jack sits through Dark being anything but good in the shower, endures him poking at the already blossoming marks and stinging bites he’d left on Anti’s— _Jack’s_ —skin, and drifts in and out of reality.

Anti still hasn’t shut him off, leaving every sensation open and hanging for Jack to feel it, like he’s still piloting his own body and nothing at all has changed. Feeling the nerves in his hands—and Dark’s hands—is stranger than feeling nothing at all, because his brain wants him to _move_ , but he can’t. Some part of his psyche refuses to comprehend the presence of a second party, and it’s constantly fighting to make its own decisions, like a child mashing furiously at a button that does nothing at all.

The feeling like shit is constant thing, but weeks ago it turned into a background buzz, always there but less intrusive. Now, still tingling with the aftermath of an orgasm and being fucked by, well, a _demon_ —Jack feels the sensation of emptiness roar back to life inside him.

It’s most infuriating, he thinks, that Anti can barely feel what he feels; nothing more than soft echoes of Jack’s despair. Jack has to experience every one of Anti’s emotions like they’re his own, no filter or numbing power to drown it all out, but Anti is all but immune to Jack.

His eviler half—it’s easier to think of him like that, if a bit childish—has his own worries, but they’re smothered now beneath the pleasant hum of tactile companionship. It’s not something Anti lets himself indulge in too much, but tonight he’s been rationalizing it out as a necessity, Jack can tell.

It’s more than that, given the way Anti gravitates towards Dark more strongly than ever, but Jack’s demon is nothing without his pride in denial.

Jack can feel every inch of Dark’s collarbone against his stubbled cheek, the rush of heat over their skin beneath the stream of water, and the burn of the reddening bite on his shoulder. Anti breathes and relaxes, just for a second, just long enough to make a difference in the atmosphere. Dark can practically smell vulnerability, and he must sense it in the heavy weight of Anti’s body against his, because there’s a deep rumble vibrating in his throat.

Jack hates him, every animal inch of him. He’s a puppeteer and a devil, and he’s twisting Anti like a string around his fingers, tying him up and hitching them closer together until they’re sewn skin to skin at the seams.

Anti is a gullible fool, because he thinks he’s the one in charge, no matter how wary he thinks he is of Dark. His pride ruins him, masking him until he believes his own illusions of control— _kiss him once and he’ll be okay, make him quiet and he won’t blow your cover, keep him happy and you’ll breathe another day_.

Anti is a pretty marionette with sharp edges, dulled by the slow sanding of attention and affection, and one day Dark is going to snap every single one of his wooden limbs like twigs.

Jack doesn’t know whether to be angry on his behalf—Anti is still him, after all, just the parts that he hates—or satisfied at the thought of his destruction.

Jack might not survive this, any of this, but if he does anything before he dies, he’s going to see Dark suffer. Anything to leave a gash, a scar, to break a few pieces off before the light swallows Jack up and he’s gone forever.

If Mark can break free from Dark, even just for an hour, then Jack can do the same. Anti is too complacent, he’s too distracted by the promise of the end in sight and Dark whispering platitudes in his ear. Jack is still strong, he’s still alive, and Anti is easy enough prey.

The thought of Mark swims back into his head, following his thoughts of revenge, and Jack’s heart aches. He has no way of knowing how strong Dark really is, if the pain Mark’s causing him is enough to cause him to collapse temporarily, but it might be enough.

If Jack can break down the walls between himself and Anti, it might be enough for Mark to do the same. From there on, it’s anyone’s game, but having a place on the field is better than being benched, and Jack can work with just about anything.

Anti puts up a fuss when Dark tries to dry his hair, but he doesn’t flinch at slipping into Dark’s shirt, or losing most of his personal space in the bed. They don’t talk about the sex, or about any words exchanged in the heat of the moment, just their plans for the week. Anti picks through his notes and profiles the victims they’re in town for, and Dark listens. It’s boring and terrible all at once.

Jack sits through it all, seething and sensitive and angrier by the second.

He’d wanted to feel Mark’s hands on him, not Dark’s. He’d wanted his first time with Mark to be _theirs_ , not someone else’s. He’d wanted to look up at Mark and think about how far they’d come together, not how close they are to death.

He wonders if Mark could feel any of it, if he even saw what happened. Jack doesn’t know which outcome he wishes for the most.

Time wears on, and there’s still no sign of discomfort on Dark’s face. Mark is gone, at least for now, and what Dark’s done to him is yet another mystery Jack can’t solve. Instead, there’s something close to contentment buzzing behind Dark’s eyes, and he looks so docile that Jack only feels sick.

Anti glances down at Dark who's smirking up at him with a dopey, knowing look, and he raises his eyebrow in response.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, unflattered.

Dark shrugs aimlessly, grin going more crooked. “I’m just thinking about how I’m your darling now. I think it has a nice ring to it.”

Anti makes a disgusted face. “You’re the devil’s darling, if anything. I can’t believe I’m shacked up with Satan’s whore.”

Dark gives him a look, less than fazed.

“Now you’re just being rude on purpose,” he points out. “That sounds a lot more like the Anti I know and love.”

“I liked your talking a lot better when it had a purpose.” Anti shoves the papers aside and cracks his shoulders. “Don’t push it.”

Dark, to his credit, doesn’t utter another word, but Jack can see the way his eyes do all the talking for him.

 _‘I’m going away,’_ he interjects, flashing in and out of Anti’s thoughts like a dying bulb. _‘I hope you and Dark are deliriously happy together, and for the record? If anyone wins the title of Satan’s whore, it’s you.’_

Jack doesn’t wait for the response he knows won’t ever come, and slips away into sweet oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for how drawn out and unsexy this was. I'm less than happy with the smut overall, but short of rewriting the whole damn thing, there's not much else I can do. Hope you're still satisfied. Much love.


	23. help me turn a blind eye (days and nights we lost to weakness)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Show me joy, flower through disarray  
> Let's destroy, each mistake that we made  
> Then restore the color back to the grey  
> There's no pride in sharing scars to prove it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, half the reason this is out late is because I'm tired and am in school again. The other reason is that there was a lot of planning that Quin and I had to do in order to flesh out the rest of the plot. It's been a fun time.
> 
> This chapter is obviously building up to a lot of things in the future, and a sort of wind-down from the whirlwind of smut last chapter. 
> 
> But I won't ramble too much more. On with the chapter! 
> 
> Chapter Title and Summary from "Fake It" by Bastille

Somewhere in the middle of isolation, Mark had been able to feel again, and he thinks that’s not really due to Dark finally taking pity on him. It’s because he’s gloating and Mark honestly hates him more than he ever has.

He’d thought he’d been winning so far, been tearing down every single one of Dark’s walls and forcing half-truths into every available space of their shared brain. He’d refused to give him even a second of peace after what he’d done to that girl. 

Mark’s heart had nearly broken when that girl recognized his face. He had wanted so desperately to tell her to run, that it wasn’t him, that he was _sorry_ , even if his hands said otherwise. He’d been sure that he’d die right then and there, dragging the both of them to some sort of fresh new hell that only reeked of despair. 

It would have been just deserved. 

He’s come to terms with the fact that he’s going to die. His hands are stained with too much blood, Dark’s too strong for him to hold off for too long, and now that he’s got Anti under his thumb, he’s got no hope of wrenching control away ever again, let alone casting him out completely. Anti is Dark’s only weakness, and now that Anti is being the picture-perfect image of “agreeable,” Mark’s got no ammunition to fire at him. 

His only hope now is to take him down alongside him. Whatever the case, he can’t let this ritual go through, because Dark loose on the world is a disaster that no one is ready for. Mark is prepared to strip away at whatever sanity Dark may or may not have, forcing him to come to terms that he won’t go down without a fight, no matter how badly he wants him to. 

Mark knows he won’t win this battle. There’s no conceivable way. But he has to keep trying. For the rest of the world.

_For Jack._

Jack. God, he hasn’t properly thought of him for ages. He’s always been there, on the backburner while he’s preoccupied with Dark and whatever chaos he’s determined to cause. But it causes him this horrible anguish knowing that he’ll never get to know how Jack feels about him.

Anti had claimed that Jack wanted to see him, that he missed him and that he wanted to touch him. Mark can’t be sure if he’d been telling the truth. Anti plays these sick mind games on people, he’d wanted Dark back, and in that case, Anti had been willing to use whatever was at his disposal to make Mark relinquish his control again. 

But at least Jack knows how he feels. That’s enough for Mark. It has to be.

He wishes he’d never played that stupid game. He wishes he’d fought against Dark harder, wishes he never let Dark even get an inch into his psyche. Mark knows there’s no point in crying over maybes and would-bes, but there’s very little else to think of.

Dark hasn’t prodded into him in a long time, not since fucking Anti’s brains out like a sex-starved animal. 

There’s a twisted part of him that had loved seeing Anti-- _Jack_ \--like that, so wanting and needy and desperate, and another reason he hates Dark is that he hadn’t felt a thing. Dark’s taken so much from him already; his body, his privacy, his desires--he’s taken his and Jack’s first kiss from both of them, and now he’s taken their first time. Dark couldn’t even be bothered to lower that impenetrable wall between them to give him the lukewarm satisfaction of feeling Jack’s skin beneath him. 

Perhaps it’d been punishment for raising a stink, for tormenting him in his head, for taking control and getting to kiss Anti that one time. 

“ _I’d have tortured the humanity right out of him_ ,” Dark had said, and Mark can’t say that’s not something he hasn’t wished for. 

If he didn’t have his humanity, he might not feel anything, when this is all over. 

He’s tired. He wants it to be over. 

~~

Dark’s so in love he disgusts himself sometimes.

But then he doesn’t care, because Anti loves him too and it’s fucking great. 

Of course, Anti hasn’t really admitted this out loud--not like Dark has--but he’s not quite as sour as he normally is. He still sneers and bites and swats, but not with as much heat, and he lets Dark kiss him in all the places that he wants. Sometimes when he’s feeling charitable, he’ll kiss back. 

Right now, he watches Anti from across the room, pouring over some information for their last few kills. Dark’s supposed to be looking on his own laptop for something helpful, but he likes to stare at him while he works. He always has this air about him when he does.

So focused. Anti’s long since stopped wearing the eyepatch around him, especially when they’re at a hotel, and so both of his eyes fix on whatever piece of material he’s found to be useful. His shoulders will tense, as though anticipating a grand epiphany, and if he’s not using both hands, sometimes he’ll tap a rhythm onto the nearest solid surface. Sometimes it’s the table, sometimes it’s his leg, sometimes it’s Dark. 

“Are you going to stare at me all night?” Anti breaks into his thoughts, not bothering to raise his gaze as he continues to stare down an endless stream of what Dark feels like is meaningless text. He knows that there’s a lot of research involved because they don’t want to fuck up their kills, but God, does it take forever. “Or are you actually going to do something useful?”

“You’re ten times more interesting to look at than these papers,” Dark replies, and considers for a moment crossing the room. It’s not exactly a lie--he knows that this work is important, and the faster they find what they need, the faster they can stop, but it doesn’t make it any less dull. He wants to coax Anti away from his endless stream of work, because they’re here now, at the close of it all. Surely he could spare a few moments. “A lot prettier, too.”

Anti lets out a soft sigh, but it might be a snort, and at least if it’s that, Dark had drawn some humor from him. He’s not smiling yet, but if Dark has it his way, he will by the end of the night. 

“The sooner we finish this,” Anti drawls, finally raising his eyes to meet his. “The sooner we can stop looking at all of this. Now are you going to actually get some work done or am I going to gouge your eyes out?” 

“I feel like that’s counterproductive,” Dark answers. 

“Yes, but I’d get some peace,” Anti hums back. “And perhaps a little privacy.”

_I guess a good fuck got you what you wanted._

And there it is. His blissful peace with Anti, shattered in an instant by Mark’s salty attitude.

**Guess I’m just that good,** Dark tells him, because despite his hatred, Mark is something he can’t quite block out anymore. At least he can get a rise out of him. **What are you, jealous?**

_I’m jealous that I couldn’t shut you out like you shut me out,_ comes Mark’s answer. _Anti is the last person on my list of people to fuck._

**Still on the list,** Dark replies. 

Mark does the mental equivalent of an eye-roll, or at least, that’s what he imagines he’s doing, because somewhere in the back of his eyes he feels it, and it’s a reminder that the pain is soon to come. Anti has been his conduit for pain lately, distracting him momentarily, because Mark stops his little fits when Dark gets too close to Anti, and it’s probably because he looks like the sweetheart he’s trying too hard to save. 

_Fuck you_ , Mark sneers, so vicious and loud in his head. But it’s the least creative swear he’s come up with lately. 

**Is puppy upset that I didn’t let him feel his little boyfriend?** Dark taunts him, because frankly, that’s probably what he’s brooding over. He vaguely wonders if Anti had allotted Jack the feelings. Maybe he’d broken the barriers down. Dark hadn’t wanted Mark to get _anything_ of Anti, even if the body itself was stolen. **Get over it. You’re never going to see or feel him again, unless you see each other in hell, that is.**

Mark is silent for a few moments, and Dark’s mind rings like static in waiting. 

_You are like me,_ he says, almost thoughtfully. It’s laced with underlying intention, though. _In a way. You taunt and jeer and mock. But you’re afraid, aren’t you?_

**Of you?** Dark snickers. 

_No. That this isn’t going to work out. That everything’s going to crumble and you won’t be able to stop it,_ Mark’s voice grows quieter. _That’s why you’re pushing me down so hard, isn’t it? You’re scared that I’ll ruin everything._

**You couldn’t ruin anything if you tried,** is his answer. **Actually, you’ve already tried, remember? And how well did that go? The only thing you succeeded in was pissing Anti off.**

There’s a feeling then, stirring somewhere deep within him. It’s not new--he realizes that he’s probably been feeling it this whole time, but somehow, only now he’s picked up on it. It’s not exactly painful, not yet anyway, but it’s uncomfortable, and Mark’s voice rings louder. _Why are you like this?_

It’s almost a comical question. Dark has a feeling that laughing will only upset Mark more, though he’s never cared about that before. **I thought it was obvious. I hate you.**

_Why?_ Mark sounds genuinely curious. _You said we’re the same person, basically. You said you’re part of me. That I’m...part of you._

He still sounds like he’s still having trouble believing it, as though he’s still vehemently against the idea that they could be cut from the same cloth. Dark snorts.

**You’ve never hated part of yourself?** he asks, and when Mark is silent, he goes on. **You’re weak. You don’t take what you want. You’re a miserable excuse for a human. I don’t like any of it. In fact, it really, really pisses me off. Do you see a pattern?**

_You’re weak for Anti,_ Mark reminds him, as though he’s got any sort of leverage over him. _That’s pathetic, isn’t it? That your obsession with one man is the only thing that’ll make you bend and break?_

Dark doesn’t really care what Mark thinks. He’s strong with or without Anti, and his love plays no part in his ability to tear throats out of human beings. He ignores the question because he doesn’t really feel like it needs an answer.

_I’m talking to you,_ Mark snaps, and something sharp crawls into his chest. Dark grinds his teeth, determined not to answer him. _Hey!_

**I’m looking forward to the day that you just roll over and die,** Dark growls finally, attempting to shut him out.

He supposes lately his mental block between them hasn’t been as strong, because Mark shoves--literally _shoves_ \--back against it. _Honestly? Me too. Just so I don’t have to deal with you and your shitty ass._

**Go back to your rat hole where you belong--**

“Dark,” Anti cuts in, and when his gaze flickers, his partner regards him with a mute irritation. “Don’t even give him the time of day.” 

He doesn’t question how Anti knows. Dark imagines that his eyes glaze over slightly when he’s talking to Mark too long--the same way that Anti’s do when he talks to Jack. But for all the yammering that Jack does, he doesn’t think that he’s quite as nasty as Mark has the capability to be. 

“I wasn’t,” is his cool response, because the last thing he wants to admit is that Mark is still a gnat that irritates the shit out of him. 

Anti snorts. “Your face says otherwise. Lock him out.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Dark huffs, as though he hasn’t already explicitly stated this before. 

But he really can’t. This body of his is beginning to deteriorate underneath the weight of two souls. He may be stronger physically, but mentally he’s running out of fuel. Some days it feels like a strain to even maintain his grasp on this shell.

Anti lets out a long breath, perhaps in exasperation, but in a swift movement he hoists himself up from the table, gathering up his information before crossing the room. Dark eyes him, gauging his motive, taking a moment to be surprised when Anti slides onto the bed. He kicks off his shoes, stretching his legs out, before leaning back against the headboard.

Dark stares. Anti cocks his head at him, as though prompting him to do something or another.

He doesn’t really know what he could do that wouldn’t piss Anti off. He knows that Anti’s been more agreeable lately, but that doesn’t mean he’s been in exactly a cuddly mood. Sometimes he’s more irritated than others, and he can only assume that means he’s suffering under the strain of keeping Jack in line. 

“Normally I don’t have to wait two seconds for you to get all over me,” Anti mumbles. Then, louder, “Come here.”

Setting the laptop aside, Dark shifts closer to him, and he stalls, still unsure of what Anti is suggesting. But before he can situated in their closer proximity, Anti’s hand touches the top of his head, petting his hair softly. 

His touch soothes the fire that Mark’s trying to ignite beneath his skin. It doesn’t go away, but it quiets, a dull wave every few seconds, and it’s more than welcome as opposed to the hailstorm that is on its way. 

Dark pulls away briefly to lay his head in Anti’s lap, letting his legs hang off the edge of the bed. When Anti hums, barely audible in the room, he imagines that had been his intention the whole time. He rests his hands by his sides, focusing on the sensation of Anti’s fingers against his scalp.

“Close your eyes,” Anti commands, but it sounds more like a request. “And give me some peace and quiet.”

Dark, for once, does as he’s told.

~~

No matter how many times he’s seen it happen, Mark will never get over feeling blood on his hands. 

Dark is such a fucking animal. Not that he’s not always thought that, but somewhere in between the fan and the last two, it’s been so much more evident. 

He’s torturing the shit out of this new guy, and Mark can’t even remember which chakra it’s supposed to satisfy. Maybe the sixth or seventh, he’s really lost count and he hasn’t taken the time to go over their stock. He’s tired of seeing organs and blood and ripped skin. He wants it to end. 

Mark thinks maybe Dark’s just savoring their last few kills in these lackluster bodies before being born anew, but maybe Dark’s just a sadistic asshole.

The heartbreak of watching someone cry and beg for their life hasn’t faded, but the reaction had dampened because Dark takes pleasure in his misery, and he can’t muffle it. Mark has taken to mutely watching in the backseat, hoping his lack of reaction is enough for Dark to just get it over with. Killing people with your own hands is the opposite of normal, but he’s grown mostly apathetic towards viewing it, and that at least saves whatever shred of sanity he has left. 

Their victim isn’t even struggling anymore, devolved into low moans and sobs, but Dark presses down on his arms, securing him in place, and Mark tries to loosen the hold, to make it something less of an execution and more of an unfortunate circumstance. Sometimes if he pushes hard enough against Dark’s control, it’ll crumble just for a second, long enough for a reprieve. It’s worked especially well recently given Dark’s recent lack of strength, but he isn’t expecting it to work this time, not so close to the end already.

Dark’s fingers shake a bit, and then Mark feels a mental equivalent of a door slamming into him. If his lungs were his, it would have felt like the wind was knocked out of him. His demon half’s fingers steady, and Anti looms over the body with purpose.

_He really likes using that knife, huh?_ Mark tries to interrupt Dark, tries to distract him from the task at hand, but Dark doesn’t answer him. _Do you ever think he’d use it on you?_

The jab is weak at best, but he’s exhausted all of his other options. Dark knows every one of his tricks and ploys, his ruses and his distortion of reality. He can’t possibly fool him anymore, but Mark would be complacent if he just let it happen without even a half-hearted attempt. Sometimes distracting him is his best chance.

Mark clouds his vision to the best of his ability at this point in the kill, waiting until Anti raises his knife, unwilling to witness a murder if he doesn’t have to. Dark never lets him block it out completely, controlling him even in his backseat position, but he’s not strong enough anymore to keep him from blurring it just a bit.

But something in Dark’s voice catches his attention. Mark clears the haze, and stares at what Dark stares at, Anti’s hand a little too far to the right. “...Anti?”

He missed. He missed a target right in front of him.

Anti can’t seem to believe it either. His demeanor doesn’t change, and he doesn’t seem to be worried at all, but when Mark glimpses his eyes, there’s an underlying calculation, confusion. He doesn’t seem to understand either. 

He raises it again without warning, slamming it down into the man’s throat before Mark has a chance to look away. 

The man chokes, and then slowly quiets. 

For once, his and Dark’s thoughts intermingle, both containing the same, repeating thought--Anti doesn’t miss. He’s such a precise person, no room for error, and even without that, who misses a target right in front of them? 

_He’s getting weaker,_ Mark muses, more to himself and what tiny bit of privacy he has than to Dark.

**Shut up,** Dark snaps back, and Mark had forgotten he was listening. **I didn’t ask for your input.**

_I didn’t offer it_ , Mark snips back, because he’s got no patience left to spare for himself, let alone Dark. _You scared I’m right for once?_

“Let’s go,” Anti says, his voice calm and still. But his eyes tell a different story, the exact opposite. “We’ve got one to go.” 

~~

Anti’s taking too long in the shower, and Dark starts to get suspicious when there’s steam billowing from underneath the door and it’s not even open yet. 

His partner has been acting a little funny since Dark’s last kill, and perhaps he’s riding the high of almost being finished--one to go--or something else. Anti’s been unusually closed off and Dark’s got a lot of questions he wants answered. 

Moving to the bathroom door, he knocks on it exactly one time before twisting the knob, opening it up with a resounding _creak_. He stares at the cloud of fog and calls out, “Anti?”

No answer. He leans against the doorframe. “You’re wasting all the hot water, you know. Don’t you yell at me for that all the time?”

There’s not even a shuffle that indicates Anti’s still inside the shower. Letting out a long sigh, Dark crosses the tiled floor and yanks back the curtain, reaching in to shut off the water. 

He’s halfway through turning it off when Anti grabs his wrist, nearly hissing, “ _Christ_ , Dark. The fuck are you doing?” 

The normally pale skin of his fingers is a burning, scathing red. Locking eyes with him, Dark finishes turning off the water, and he humors himself for a moment. Anti looks so pissed off that he’s like a cat forced into a bath, all dripping hair and permanent scowl. 

Dark looks him over, and there’s something about the way he’s holding himself that sets his nerves off. It’s not a monumental shift in mood, but he doesn’t usually dally around like this. He could write it off as a long day, but somehow, he doubts it.

“You’re wasting all the water,” Dark restates, pinning him with a look. Anti bristles. “Is...does it hurt?”

He can tell Anti doesn’t like that question. In response, he grabs his towel from the edge of the sink, wrapping it around himself before stepping out. He shoves past Dark with a surprising lack of force, before he exits the bathroom.

_Wrong question._

Dark returns to the room, trying to shove Mark into a little box just so he’ll shut up, and Anti’s already got on boxers while he pulls on his stolen hoodie, bunching the fabric between his fingers. Stuffing his hands into the pockets, he lets out a slow sigh.

Anti’s not as outward with his pain as Dark knows he’d been. It’s only evident in the slight tenseness to his shoulders and the wayward glances that linger too long on the walls. He’s fighting this war within himself, just as Dark is, and it’s a grim reminder that even this close to the end, their time is still borrowed with the due date looming on the horizon.

Padding up behind him, Dark wraps his arms around Anti’s smaller frame, feeling the other snug and secure against him. His skin is warm and still a little wet, but he’s tangible, physical, and it soothes his own nerves. Dark laces his fingers together over his stomach, locking him in place, and slowly Anti’s fingers graze over his, tentative, as though unsure of the motion. As if they have anything to be uncertain about now.

“He won’t best you,” Dark murmurs, as a sense of reassurance. He thinks maybe he should provide him with a distraction, since it’s worked in the past, but Anti’s not like him in this way. He’s driven further by goals and desires, and assurances. “You know that, don’t you?”

Anti grunts a reply, a halfway point between agreeing and disagreeing. He doesn’t move, and Dark admires his strength--there’s not so much as a tremble in his figure. Just the tightness. He wishes he could relieve it.

“You’re smarter than him,” Dark brushes his lips along his neck, squeezing him a little tighter. “He’s nowhere near as brave. He’s nowhere near as cruel as he needs to be to survive. But you are. And you will. You’ll not only outlive him--you’ll kill him.”

“You don’t need to tell me what I already know, _mo ghrá_ ,” Anti says, and though this isn’t the first time he’s spoken tonight, Dark finds it strange to hear his voice. He’s always a statue when he’s contemplating something, nearly mute in disposition. “The little wasp has barely enough strength to keep himself alive.” 

Dark kisses his shoulder, rubbing his thumb along his abdomen, and the stillness in Anti’s form is akin to a thank you. The tension soon begins to uncoil, just a bit, and though it doesn’t go away, it seems like he’s managing it now. He’ll never voice such gratitude aloud, because he’ll never admit to anything Dark does as comforting, but it’s as close as he’ll get, and that’ll be enough.

The endearment isn’t lost on him, and though the pronunciation is foreign, Dark recognizes the word. He hasn’t forgotten the pretty words since Anti had first said them, and they’d been permanently engraved in his mind when he’d been told their meaning, a promise of something sweet--something that’s yet to come. The words are a warm beacon of what’s to come when the ritual is complete, and when their new bodies are a reality, stronger and better and unique to them, while these carcasses are a distant memory, rotting away somewhere six feet below. 

“One to go,” he whispers into Anti’s skin, as though pressing the words there, tattooing him with the implication. There’s a dull pain behind his eyes, the beginning of a throbbing headache and Mark will only be quiet for so long before he starts throwing a fit again. But he needs to comfort Anti now, because if Anti remains solid, Dark’s got a lifeline and he’s chasing that with everything he has. “One to go, love. Then it’s all over.”

Anti closes his eyes, and nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all comments and kudos. It's so appreciated and I'm trying to answer comments more, but even if I don't, know I'm so grateful and ilu <3
> 
> **EDIT AS OF 2/23/18: WE WILL BE CONTINUING THE STORY. WE HAVE PLANNED IT TO THE END. Quin and I have met up and talked about the ending and worked out the entire rest of the story, and we are currently in the works for chugging through the last few parts. I know it's been well over a year, but unfortunately life has a way of stealing time away from us. Thank you for your everlasting patience and we hope that soon, you'll get the ending you've been waiting for. -GG**

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Thanks so much from the both of us!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7021267) by [AdorabloodthirstyKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/pseuds/AdorabloodthirstyKitty)
  * [Let It Burn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7024840) by [AdorabloodthirstyKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/pseuds/AdorabloodthirstyKitty)
  * [Camisado](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7057213) by [AdorabloodthirstyKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/pseuds/AdorabloodthirstyKitty)
  * [Blood and Gore In Vivid Technicolor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7184555) by [AdorabloodthirstyKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/pseuds/AdorabloodthirstyKitty)
  * [Just Another Roadtrip AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7273618) by [AdorabloodthirstyKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/pseuds/AdorabloodthirstyKitty)
  * [Like A Tarantino Movie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7362478) by [AdorabloodthirstyKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/pseuds/AdorabloodthirstyKitty)
  * [Give Me a Reason To Love You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7750453) by [AdorabloodthirstyKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/pseuds/AdorabloodthirstyKitty)
  * [lost a part of your existence (in the war against yourself)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8478592) by [thedarknesswithin (babylxxrry)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babylxxrry/pseuds/thedarknesswithin)




End file.
